BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME
FROM THE

SAGE ENDO^VMENT FUND

THE GIFT OF

Henrg M, Sage

1891

Aau.j3j ^^^^^.

OUN LIBRARY-CIRCULATION

Cornell University Library
PS 1134.J3 1887

Jane Talbot.

3 1924 022 011 179

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Library

The original of tliis book is in
tine Cornell University Library.

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the United States on the use of the text.

http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022011179

JANE TALBOT

BEING VOLUME V
OF

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN'S NOVELS

^

f

JANE TALBOT

BY

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN

PHILADELPHIA

1887

JFibt Surtiitt!) aCafitg f riittjil.'

JANE TALBOT.

LETTER I.

To Henry Oolden.

/^ ^ ' Philadelphia, Monday Evening, October 3.

V IaM very far from being a wise girl. So conscience
■vmispers me, and, though van ibj la wag er to refute the
charge, I must acknowledge that she is seldom successful.
Conscience tells me it is folly, it is guilt, to wrap up my
existence in one frail mortal ; to employ all my thoughts,
to lavish all my affections, upon one object; to dote upon
a human being, who, as such, must be the heir of many
frailties, and whom I know to be not without his faults ; to
enjoy no peace but in his presence, to be grateful for his
permission to sacrifice fortune, ease, life itself, for his sake.

From the humiliation produced by these charges,
vanity endeavours to relieve me by insinuating that all
happiness springs from affection ; that nature ordains no
tie so strong as that between the sexes; that to love
without bounds is to confer bliss not only on ourselves
but on another ; that conjugal affection is the genuine
sphere not only of happiness but duty.

Besides, my heart will not be persuaded but that its
fondness for you is nothing more than simple justice.
Ought I not to love excellence, and does my poor ima-
gination figure to itself any thing in human shape more
excellent than thou?

But yet there are bounds beyond which passion cannot
go without counteracting its own purposes. I am afraid
mine goes beyond those bounds. So far as it produces
rapture, it deserves to be cherished ; but when productive

3

4 y^-'A'S TALBOT.

of impatience, repining, agony, on occasions too that
are slight, trivial, or unavoidable, 'tis surely culpable.

Methinks, my friend, I would not have bad thee for a
witness of the bitterness, the tumult of my feelings,
during this day ; ever since you left me. You cannot
conceive any thing more forlorn, more vacant, more anx-
ious, than this weak heart has been and still is. I was
terrified at my own sensations, and, with my usual folly,
began to construe them into omens of evils ; so inade-
quate, so disproportioned was my distress to the cause
that produced it.

Ah ! my friend ! a weak — very weak — creature is thy
Jane. From excess of love arises that weakness ; that
must be its apology with thee, for, in thy mind, my
fondness, I know, needs an apology.

Shall I scold you a little ? I have held in the rein a
long time, but my overflowing heart must have relief,
and I shall find a sort of comfort in chiding you. Let
me chide you, then, for coldness, for insensibility: but
no; I will not. Let me enjoy the rewards of self-denial
and forbearance, and seal up my accusing lips. Let me
forget the coldness of your last salute, your ill-concealed
effort to disengage yourself from my foolishly-fond arms.
You have got at your journey's end, I hope. Farewell.

J. Talbot.

LETTER II.
To Henry Colden.

Tuesday Morning, October 4.

I MUST write to you, you said, frequently and copiously:
you did not mean, I suppose, that I should always be
scribbling, but I cannot help it. I can do nothing but
converse with you. When present, my prate is inces-
sant; when absent, I can prate to you with as little
intermission ; for the pen, used so carelessly and thought-
lessly as I use it, does but prate.

Besides, I have not forgotten my promise. 'Tis true
the story you wished me to give you is more easily com-

JANE TALBOT. 5

municated by the pen than by the lips. I admit your claim
to be acquainted with all the incidents of my life, be they
momentous or trivial. I have often told you that the retro-
8pect-«Lverymo«nrfttl ; but that ought not to preveiTt me
■from making it, when so useful a purpose as that of tho-
roughly disclosing to you the character of one, on whom
your future happiness is to depend, will be affected by it.
I am not surprised that calumny has been busy with my
life, and am very little anxious to clear myself from
unjust charges, except to such as you.

At this moment, I may add, my mood is not unfriendly
to the undertaking. I can do nothing in your absence
but write to you. To write what I have ten thousand
times spoken, and which can be perfectly understood
only when accompanied by looks and accents, seems
absurd. Especially while there is a subject on which
my tongue can never expatiate, but on which it is neces-
sary that you should know^ all that I can tell you.

The prospect of filling up this interval with the relation
of the most affecting parts of my life somewhat reconciled
me to your necessary absence, yet I know my heart will
droop. Even this preparation to look back makes me
shudder already. Some reluctance to recall tragical or
humiliating scenes, and, by thus recalling to endure them,
in some sense, a second time, I must expect to feel.

But let me lay down the pen for the present. Let me
take my favourite and lonely path, and, by a deliberate
review of the past, refresh my memory and methodize
my recollections. Adieu till I return. J. T.

LETTER IIL

To Henry Colden.

Tuesday Morning, 11 o'clock.

I AM glad I left not word how soon I meant to return,
for here has been, it seems, during my short absence, a
pair of gossips. They have just gone, lamenting the
disappointment, and leaving me a world of complimentary
condolences.

6 JANE TALBOT.

I shall take care to prevent future interruption by
shutting up the house and retiring to my chamber, where
I am resolved to remain till I have fully disburdened my
heart. Disburden it, said I? I shall load it, I fear,
with sadness, but I will not regret an undertaking which
my duty to you makes indispensable.

One of the earliest incidents that I remember is an
expostulation with my father. I saw several strange
people enter the chamber where my mother was. Some-
what suggested to my childish fancy that these strangers
meant to take her away, and that I should never see her
again. My ten'or was violent, and I thought of nothing
but seizing her gown or hand, and holding her back from
the rude assailants. My father detained me in his arms,
and endeavoured to soothe my fears, but I would not be
appeased. I struggled and shrieked, and, hearing some
movements in my mother's room, that seemed to betoken
the violence I so much dreaded, I leaped, with a sudden
effort, from my father's arms, but fainted before I reached
the door of the room.

This may serve as a specimen of the impetuosity of
my temper. It was always fervent and unruly, unac-
quainted with moderation in its attachments, violent in
its indignation and its enmity, but easily persuaded to
pity and forgiveness.

When I recovered from my swoon, I ran to my mo-
ther's room ; but she was gone. I rent the air with my
cries, and shocked all about -me with importunities to
know whither they had carried her. They had carried
her to the grave, and nothing would content me but to
visit the spot three or four times a day, and to sit in the
room in which she died, in stupid and mopeful silence,
all night long.

At this time I was only five years old, — an age at
which, in general, a deceased parent is quickly forgotten ;
but, in my attachment to my mother, I showed none of
the volatility of childhood. While she lived, 1 was never
at ease but when seated at her knee, or with my arms
round her neck. When dead, I cherished her remem-
brance for years, and have paid, hundreds of times, the
tribute of my tears at the foot of her grave.

JANE TALBOT. 7

wAg^three yearsoWar-tfeaJi'BTyself, be-
hav^HlI'a very^QiffcrenTnTaMlei^l used to think the
difference between us was merely that of sex ; that every
boy was boisterous, ungrateful, imperious, and inhuman,
as every girl was soft, pliant, affectionate. Time has
cured me of that mistake, and, as it has shown me females
unfeeling and perverse, so it has introduced me to men
full of gentleness and sensibility. My brother's subse-
quent conduct convinced me that he was at all times
^elfish and irascible beyond most other men, and that his
ingratitude and insolence to his mother were only congenial
parts of the character he afterwards displayed at large.

My brother and I passed our infancy in one uninter-
mitted quarrel. We were never together but he played
some cruel and mischievous prank, which I never failed
to resent to the utmost of my little power. I soon found
that my tears only increased his exultation, and my com-
plaints only grieved my mother. I, therefore, gave word
for word and blow for blow; but, being always worsted
in such conflicts, I shunned him whenever it was possible,
and whatever his malice made me suffer I endeavoured to
conceal from her.

My mother, on her death-bed, was anxious to see him,
but ne had strolled away after some boyish amusement,
with companions as thoughtless as himself. The news of
her death scarcely produced an hour's seriousness. He
made my affliction a topic of sarcasm and contempt.

To soften my grief, my father consented to my living
undeK-tho. care of her whom I now call my mother.
Mrs^FieldeJ- was merely the intimate from childhood of
jay^awn mother, with whom, however, since her marrage,
contracted against Mrs. Fielder's inclination and remon-
strances, she had maintained but little intercourse. My
mother's sudden death and my helpless age awakened all
her early tenderness, and induced her to offer an asylum
to me. Having a considerable fortune and no family,
her offer, notwithstanding ancient jealousies, was readily
accepted by my father.

My new residence was, in many respects, the reverse
of my former one. The treatment I received from my
new parent, without erasing the memory of the old one,

8 JANE TALBOT.

quickly excited emotions as filial and tender as I had ever
experienced. Comfort and quiet, peace and harmony,
obsequious and affectionate attendants and companions,
I had never been accustomed to under the paternal roof.

From this period till I was nearly sixteen years of age,
I merely paid occasional visits to my father. He loved
me with as much warmth as his nature was capable of
feeling, which I repaid him in gratitude and reverence.
I never remitted my attention to his aiEiirs, and studied
his security and comfort as far as these were within my
power.

My brother was not deficient in talents, but he wanted
application. Very early he showed strong propensities
to active amusement and sensual pleasures. The school
and college were little attended to, and the time that ought
to have been appropriated to books and study was wasted
in frolics and carousals. As soon as he was able to manage
a gun and a horse, they were procured ; and these, and
the company to which they introduced him, afforded
employment for all his attention and time.

My father had devoted his early years to the inde-
fatigable pursuit of gain. He was frugal and abstemious,
though not covetous, and amassed a large property. This
property he intended to divide between his two children,
and to secure my portion to his nephew, whom his parents
had left an orphan in his infancy, and whom my father
had taken and treated as his own child by marrying him
to me. This nephew passed his childhood among us.
His temper being more generous than my brother's, and
being taught mutually to regard each other as destined
to a future union, our intercourse was cordial and affec-
tionate.

We parted at an age at which nothing like passion could
be felt. He went to Europe, in circumstances very fa-
vourable to his improvement, leaving behind him the ex-
pectation of bis returning in a few years. Meanwhile,
my father was anxious that we should regard each other
and maintain a correspondence as persons betrothed. In
persons at our age, this scheme was chimerical. As soon
as I acquired the power of reflection, I perceived the
folly of such premature bonds, and, though I did not

JANE TALBOT. 9

openly oppose my father's ■wishes, held myself entirely
free to obey any new impulse ■ffhich circumstances might
produce. My mother (so let me still call Mrs. Fielder)
fully concurred in my views.

You are acquainted, my friend, with many events of
my early life. Most of those not connected with my
father and his nephew, I have often related. At present,
therefore, I shall omit all collateral and contemporary
incidents, and confine myself entirely to those connected
with these two persons.

My father, on the death of his wife, retired from busi-
ness, and took a house in an airy and secluded situation.
His household consisted of a housekeeper and two or three
servants, and apartments were always open for his son.

My brother's temper grew more unmanageable as he
increased in years. My father's views with regard to
him were such as parental foresight and discretion com-
monly dictate. He wished him to acquire all possible
advantages of education, and then to betake himself to
some liberal profession, in which he might obtain honour
as well as riches. This sober scheme by no means suited
the restless temper of the youth. It was his maxim
that all restraints were unworthy of a lad of spirit, and
that it was far more wise to spend freely what his father
had painfully acquired, than, by the same plodding and
toilsome arts, to add to the heap.

I scarcely know how to describe my feelings in relation
to this young man. My affection for him was certainly
without that tenderness which a good brother is sure to
excite. I do not remember a single direct kindness that
I ever received from him ; but I remember innumerable
ill offices and contempts. Still, there was some inexpli-
cable charm in the mere tie of kindred, which made me
more deplore his errors, exult in his talents, rejoice in his
success, and take a deeper interest in his concerns than
in those of any other person.

As he advanced in age, I had new cause for my zeal
in his behalf. My father's temper was easy and flexible ;
my brother was at once vehement and artful. Frank's
arguments and upbraidings created in his father an un-
natural awe, an apprehension and diffidence in thwart-

10 JANE TALBOT.

ing liis wishes and giving advice, wliicli usually distin-
guish the filial character. The youth perceived his ad-
vantages, and employed them in carrying every point on
which his inclination was set.

For a long time this absurd indulgence was shown in
allowing his son to employ his time as he pleased, in re-
fraining from all animadversions on his idleness and dis-
sipation, and supplying him with a generous allowance of
pocket-money. This allowance required now and then to
be increased. Every year and every month, by adding
new sources of expense, added something to the stipend.

My father's revenue was adequate to a very splendid
establishment; but he was accustomed to live frugally,
and thought it wise to add his savings to the principal of
his estate. These savings gradually grew less and less,
till at length my brother's numerous excursions, a French
girl whom he maintained in expensive lodgings, his
horses, dogs, and friends, consumed the whole of it.

I never met my brother but by accident. These in-
terviews were, for the most part, momentary, either in
the street or at my father's house ; but I was too much
interested in all that befell him, not to make myself, by
various means, thoroughly acquainted with his situation.

I had no power to remedy the evil : as my elder bro-
ther, and as a man, he thought himself entitled to govern
and despise me. He always treated me as a frivolous
girl, with whom it was waste of time to converse, and
never spoke to me at all except to direct or admonish.
Hence I could do nothing but regret his habits. Their con-
sequences to himself it was beyond my power to prevent.

For a long time I was totally unaware of the tenden-
cies of this mode of life. I did not suspect that a bro-
ther's passions would carry him beyond the bound of vul-
gar prudence, or induce him to encroach on those funds
from which his present enjoyments were derived. I knew
him to be endowed with an acute understanding, and
imagined that this would point out, with suiScient clear-
ness, the wisdom of limiting his expenses to his income.

In my daily conversations with my father, I never
voluntarily introduced Frank as our topic, unless by the
harmless and trite questions of " When was he here ?"

JANE TALBOT. II

"Where has he gone?" and the like. We met only by-
accident, at his lodgings ; when I entered the room where
he was, he never thought of bestowing more than a
transient look on me, just to know who it was that
approached. Circumstances at length, however, oc-
curred, which put an end to this state of neutrality.

I heard, twice or thrice a year, from my cousin Ris-
berg. One day a letter arrived in which he obscurely
intimated that the failure of remittances from my father,
for more than half a year, had reduced him to great dis-
tress. My father had always taught him to regard him-
self as entitled to all the privileges of a son ; had sent
him to Europe under express conditions of supplying him
with a reasonable stipend, till he should come of age, at
which period it was concerted that Risberg should return
and receive a portion with me, enabling him to enter ad-
vantageously on the profession of the law, to which he was
now training. This stipend was far from being extrava-
gant, or more than sufficient for the decent maintenance
of a student at the Temple ; and Risberg's conduct had
always been represented, by those under whose eye he
had been placed, as regular and exemplary.

This intimation surprised me a good deal. I could
easily imagine the embarrassments to which a failure of
this kind must subject a generous spirit, and thought it
my duty to remove them as soon as possible. I supposed
that some miscarriage or delay had happened to the
money, and that my father would instantly rectify any
error, or supply any deficiency. I hastened, therefore,
to his house, with the opened letter. I found him alone,
and immediately showed him that page of the letter
which related to this affair. I anxiously watched his
looks while he read it.

I observed marks of great surprise in his countenance,
and, as soon as he laid down the letter, I began to expatiate
on the inconveniences which Risberg had suffered. He
listened to me in gloomy silence, and, when I had done,
made no answer but by a deep sigh and downcast look.

"Pray, dear sir," continued I, "what could have hap-
pened to the money which you sent ? You had not heard,
I suppose, of its miscarriage."

12 JANE TALBOT.

"No, I had not heard of it before. I will look into it,
and see what can be done." Here further conTersation
was suspended by a visitant. I waited with impatience
till the guest had retired ; but he had scarcely left the
room when my brother entered. I supposed my father
would have immediately introduced this subject, and, as
my brother usually represented him in every afifair of
business, and could of course throw some light upon the
present mystery, I saw no reason why I should be ex-
cluded from a conference in which I had some interest,
and was therefore somewhat surprised when my father
told me he had no need of my company for the rest of the
day, and wished to be alone with Francis. I rose in-
stantly to depart, but said, "Pray, sir, tell my brother
what has happened. Perhaps he can explain the mystery."

"What!" cried mybrother, with a laugh, "hasthysilly
brain engendered a mystery which I am to solve ? Thou
mayest save thyself the trouble of telling me, for, really,
I have no time to throw away on thee or thy mysteries."

There was always something in my brother's raillery
which my infirm soul could never support. I ought al-
ways to have listened and replied without emotion, hut a
fluttering indignation usually deprived me of utterance.
I found my best expedient was flight, when I could fly,
and silence when obliged to remain : I therefore made
no answer to this speech, but hastily withdrew.

Next morning, earlier than usual, I went to my father.
He was thoughtful and melancholy. I introduced the
subject that was nearest my heart; but he answered me
reluctantly, and in general terms, that he had examined
the affair, and would take the necessary measures.

"But, dear sir," said I, "how did it happen? How
did the money miscarry ?"

"Never mind," said he, a little peevishly: "we shall
see things put to rights, I tell you ; and let that satisfy
you."

"I am glad of it. Poor fellow! Young, generous,
disdaining obligation, never knowing the want of money,
how must he ha.ve felt on being left quite destitute, pen-
niless, running in arrear for absolute necessaries; in
debt to a good woman who lived by letting lodgings, and

JANE TALBOT. 1 3

wlio dunned him, after so long a delay, in so indirect
and delicate a manner ! — What must he have suffered,
accustomed to regard you as a father, and knowing you
had no personal calls for your large revenue, and being
so solemnly enjoined by you not to stir himself in any
rational pleasure ! for you would be always ready to
exceed your stated remittances, when there should be
just occasion. Poor fellow ! my heart bleeds for him.
But how long will it be before he hears from you ? His
letter is dated seven weeks ago. It will be another six
or eight weeks before he receives an answer, — at least
three months in all; and during all this time he will
be without money. But perhaps he will receive it
sooner."

My father frequently changed countenance, and showed
great solicitude. I did not wonder at tliis, as Risberg
had always been loved as a son. A little consideration,
therefore, ought to have shown me the impropriety of
thus descanting on an evil without remedy ; yet I still
persisted. At length, I asked to what causes I might
ascribe his former disappointments, in the letter to Ris-
berg, which I proposed writing immediately.

This question threw him into much confusion. At
last he said, peevishly, "I wish, Jane, you would leave
these matters to me: I don't like your interference."

This rebuke astonished me. I had sufficient discern-
ment to suspect something extraordinary, but was for
a few minutes quite puzzled and confounded. He had
generally treated me with tenderness and even deference,
and I saw nothing peculiarly petulant or improper in
what I had said.

"Dear sir, forgive me: you know I write to my
cousin, and, as he stated his complaints to me, it will be
natural to allude to them in my answer to his letter ; but
I will only tell him that all diflSculties are removed, and
refer him to your letter for further satisfaction ; for you
will no doubt write to him."

"I wish you would drop the subject. If you write,
you may tell him — but tell him what you please, or rather
it would be best to say nothing on the subject; but drop
the subject, I beseech you."

14 JANE TALBOT.

" Certainly, if the subject displeases you, I will drop
it." Here a pause of mutual embarrassment succeeded,
whicb was, at length, broken by my father : —

" I will speak to you to-morrow, Jane, on this subject.
I grant your curiosity is natural, and will then gratify it.
To-morrow, I may possibly explain why Risberg has not
received what, I must own, he had a right to expect.
We'll think no more of it at present, but play a game at
drauglits."

I was impatient, you may be sure, to have a second
meeting. Next day my father's embarrassment and per-
plexity was very evident. It was plain that he had not
forgotten the promised explanation, but that something
made it a very irksome task. I did not suffer matters to
remain long in suspense, but asked him, in direct terms,
what had caused the failure of which my cousin com-
plained, and whether he was hereafter to receive the
stipulated allowance ?

He answered, hesitatingly, and with downcast eyes, —
why — he did not know. He was sorry. It had not been
his fault. To say truth, Francis had received the usual
sums to purchase the bills. Till yesterday, he imagined
they had actually been purchased and sent. He always
understood them to have been so from Francis. He had
mentioned, after seeing Risberg's complaining letter, he
had mentioned the affair to Francis. Francis had con-
fessed that he had never sent the bills. His own neces-
sities compelled him to apply the money given him for this
purpose to his own use. To-be-sure, Risberg was his
nephew, — had always depended on him for his mainte-
nance ; but somehow or another the wants of Francis
had increased very much of late years, and swallowed
up all that he could rwp and rend without encroaching
on his principal. Risberg was but his nephew ; Frank was
his own and only son. To-be-sure, he once thought that
he had enough for his three children ; but times, it seems,
were altered. He did not spend on his own wants more
than he used to do; but Frank's expenses were very
great, and swallowed up every thing. To-be-sure, he
pitied the young man, but he was enterprising and indus-
trious, and could, no doubt, shift for himself; yet he

JANE TALBOT. 1 5

would be quite willing to assist him, were it in his power ;
but really it was no longer in his power.

I was, for a time, at a loss for words to express my
surprise and indignation at my brother's unfeeling self-
ishness. I could no longer maintain my usual silence
on his conduct, but inveighed against it, as soon as I
could find breath, with the utmost acrimony.

My father was embarrassed, confounded, grieved. He
sighed, and even wept. — " Francis," said he, at last, "to-
be-sure, has not acted quite right. Bat what can be
done ? Is he not my child ? and, if he has faults, is he
altogether without virtue? No; if he did not find a
lenient and forgiving judge in me, his father, in whom
could he look for one ? Besides, the thing is done, and
therefore without remedy. This year's income is nearly
exhausted, and I really fear, before another quarter comes
round, I shall want myself."

I again described, in as strong and affecting terms as I
could, Risberg's expectations and disappointment, and in-
sinuated to him, that, in a case like this, there could be no
impropriety in selling a few shares of his bank-stock.

This hint was extremely displeasing, but I urged him
so vehemently that he said, "Francis will perhaps consent
to it : I will try him this evening."

"Alas!" said I, "my brother will never consent to
such a measure. If he has found occasion for the money
you had designed for my poor cousin, and of all your cur-
rent income, his necessities will not fail to lay hold of
this."

" Very true ;" (glad, it seemed, of an excuse for not
thwarting his son's will;) "Frank will never consent.
So, you see, it will be impossible to do any thing."

I was going to propose that he should execute this
business without my brother's knowledge, but instantly
perceived the impossibility of that. My father had for
some years devolved on his son the management of all his
affairs, and habit had made him no longer qualified to act
for himself. Frank's opinion of what was proper to be
done was infallible, and absolute in all cases.

I returned home with a very sad heart. I was deeply
afilicted with this new instance of my brother's selfishness

l6 JANE TALBOT.

and of my father's infatuation. "Poor Risberg!" said
I ; " wliat will become of thee ? I love thee as my brother.
I feel for thy distresses. Would to Heaven I could re-
move them ! And cannot I remove them ? As to con-
tending with my brother's haughtiness in thy favour, that
is a hopeless task. As to my father, he will never sub-
mit to my guidance."

After much fruitless meditation, it occurred to me
that I might supply Risberg's wants from my own purse.
My mother's indulgence to me was without bounds. She
openly considered and represented me as the heiress of
her fortunes, and confided fully in my discretion. The
chief uses I had hitherto found for money were charitable
ones. I was her almoner. To stand in the place of my
father with respect to Risberg, and supply his customary
stipend from my own purse, was an adventurous under-
taking for a young creature like me. It was impossible
to do tliis clandestinely ; at least, without the knowledge
and consent of Mrs. Fielder. I therefore resolved to de-
clare what had happened, and request her counsel. An
opportunity suitable to this did not immediately offer.

Next morning, as I was sitting alone in the parlour, at
work, my brother came in. Never before had I received
a visit from him. My surprise, therefore, was not small.
I started up with the confusion of a stranger, and re-
quested him, very formally, to be seated.

I instantly saw in his looks marks of displeasure, and,
though unconscious of meriting it, my trepidation in-
creased, lie took a seat without speaking, and after
some pause addressed me thus : —

"So, girl, I hear that you have been meddling with
things that do not concern you, — sowing dissension be-
tween the old man and me ; presuming to dictate to us how
we are to manage our o^^ti property. He retailed to me,
last night, a parcel of impertinence with which you had
been teasing him, about this traveller Risberg, assuming,
long before your time, the province of his care-taker.
Why, do you think," continued he, contemptuously, " he'll
ever return to marry you ? Take my word for't, he's
no such fool. I know that he never will."

The infirmity of my temper has been a subject of eter-

JANE TALBOT. 1/

nal regret to me ; yet it never displayed itself with much
force, except under the lash of my brother's sarcasms.
My indignation on those occasions had a strange mixture
of fear in it, and both together suffocated my speech. I
made no answer to this boisterous arrogance.

"But come," continued he, "pray, let us hear your
very wise objections to a man's applying his own property
to his own use. To rob himself and spend the spoil upon
another is thy sage maxim, it seems, for which thou de-
servest to be dubbed a she Solomon. But let's see if
thou art as cunning in defending as in coining maxims.
Come ; there is a chair : lay it on the floor, and suppose
it a bar or rostrum, which thou wilt, and stand behind
it, and plead the cause of foolish prodigality against com-
mon sense."

I endeavoured to muster up a little spirit, and replied,
"I could not plead before a more favourable judge. An
appeal to my brother on behalf of foolish prodigality
could hardly fail of success. Poor common sense must
look for justice at some other tribunal."

His eyes darted fire. " Come, girl ; none of your in-
solence. I did not come here to be insulted."

"No ; you rather came to commit than to receive an
insult."

" Paltry distinguisher ! to jest with you, and not chide
you for your folly, is to insult you, is it ? Leave off ro-
mance, and stick to common sense, and you will never
receive any thing but kindness from me. But come ; if
I must humour you, let me hear how you have found your-
self out to be wiser than your father and brother."

" I do not imagine, brother, that any good will result
from our discussing this subject. Education, or sex, if
you please, has made a difference in our judgments,
which argument will never reconcile."

" With all my heart. A truce everlasting let there be ;
but, in truth, I merely came to caution you against inter-
meddling in my affairs, to tell you to beware of sowing
jealousy and ill-will between the old man and me. Prate
away on other subjects as much as you please ; but on
this affair of Risberg's hold your tongue for the future."

"I thank you for your brotherly advice, but I am
2

l8 JANE TALBOT.

afraid I never sliall bring myself to part witli tlie liberty
oi prating on every subject that pleases me ; at least, my
forbearance will flow from my own discretion, and not
from the imperious prohibition of another."

He laughed. " Well said, oddity. I am not displeased
to see you act with some spirit: but I repeat my charge;
le quiet. Your interference will do no good."

" Indeed, I firmly believe that it will not ; and that will
be a motive for my silence that shall always have its due
weight with me. Risberg, I see, must look elsewhere for
a father and a brother."

"Poor thing ! do ; put its finger in its eye and weep.
Ha ! ha ! ha ! poor Risberg ! how would he laugh to see
these compassionate tears ! It seem she has written in a
very doleful strain to thee, — talked very pathetically about
his debts to his laundress and his landlady. I have a
good mind to leave thee in this amiable ignorance ; but
I'll prove for once a kind brother, by telling you that
Risberg is a profligate and prodigal; that he neglects
every study but that of dice ; that this is the true reason
why I have stood in the way of the old man's bounty to
him. I have unquestionable proof of his worthlessness,
and see no reason to throw away money upon London pros-
titutes and gamblers. I never mentioned this to the old
man, because I would not needlessly distress him, for I
know he loves Jack at least as well as his own children.
I tell it you to justify my conduct, and hope that I may
for once trust to your good sense not to disclose it to
your father."

My heart could not restrain its indignation at these
words.

" 'Tis false!" I exclaimed; "'tis a horrid calumny
against one who cannot defend himself! I will never be-
lieve the depravity of my absent brother, till I have as
good proof of it as my present brother has given me of
his."

"Bravo, my girl! who could have thought you could
give the lie with such a grace ? Why don't you spit in
the face of the vile calumniator? But I am not angry
with you, Jane ; I only pity you ; yet I'll not leave you
before I tell you my mind. I have no doubt Risberg

JANE TALBOT. I9

means to return. He knows on what footing you are with
Mrs. Fielder, and will take care to return ; but, mind me,
Jane, you shall never throw yourself and your fortune
away upon Risberg, while I have a voice or an arm to
prevent it. And now — good-by to you."

So ended this conversation. He left me in a hurry and
confusion of spirits not to be described. For a time I
felt nothing but indignation and abhorrence for what I
thought a wicked and cruel calumny ; but in proportion
as I regained my tranquillity, my reflections changed.
Did not my brother speak truth ? Was there not some-
thing in his manner very different from that of an im-
postor ? How unmoved was he by the doubts which I
ventured to insinuate of his truth! Alas! I fear 'tis too
true.

I told you before that we parted at an age when love
could not be supposed to exist between us. If I know my-
self, I felt no more for him than for a mere brother ; but
then I felt all the solicitude and tenderness of a sister. I
knew not scarcely how to act in my present situation ; but
at length determined to disclose the whole affair to my
mother. With her approbation I enclosed an order on a
London merchant in a letter to this effect : —

"I read your letter, my friend, with the sentiments of
one who is anxious for your happiness. The difficulties
you describe will, I am afraid, be hereafter prevented
only by your own industry. My father's and brother's
expenses consume the whole of that income in which you
have hitherto had a share, and I am obliged to apprize
you that the usual remittances will no longer be made.
You are now advancing to manhood, and, I hope, will soon
be able to subsist upon the fruits of your own learning and
industry.

" I have something more to say to you, which I scarcely
know how to communicate. Somebody here has loaded
your character with very heavy imputations. You are said
to be addicted to gaming, sensuality, and the lowest vices.
How much grief this intelligence has given to all who love
you,' you will easily imagine. To find you innocent of
these charges would free my heart from the keenest so-
licitude it has hitherto felt. I leave to you the proper

20 JANE TALBOT.

means of doing tliis, if you can do it -without violation of
truth.

"I am very imperfectly acquainted with your present
views. You originally designed, after having completed
your academical and legal education, to return to America.
If this should still be your intention, the enclosed will
obviate some of your pecuniary embarrassments, and my
mother enjoins me to tell you that, as you may need a
few months longer to make the necessary preparations
for returning, you may draw on her for an additional sum
of five hundred dollars. Adieu."

My relation to Risberg was peculiarly delicate. His
more lively imagination had deceived him already into a
belief that he vi'as in love. At least, in all his letters, he
seemed fond of recognising that engagement which my
father had established between us, and exaggerated the
importance, to his happiness, of my regard. Experience
had already taught me to set their just value on such pro-
fessions. I knew that men are sanguine and confident,
and that the imaginary gracefulness of passion naturally
prompts them to make their words outstrip their feelings.
Though eager in their present course, it is easy to divert
them from it ; and most men of an ardent temper can be
dying of love for half a dozen different women in the
course of a year.

Women feel deeply, but boast not. The supposed in-
decency of forwardness makes their words generally fall
short of their sentiments, and passion, when once tho-
roughly imbibed, is as hard to be escaped from as it was
difficultly acquired. I felt no passion, and endeavoured
not to feel any, for Risberg, till circumstances should make
it proper and discreet. My attachment was to his interest,
his happiness, and not to his person, and to convince him
of this was extremely difficult. To persuade him that his
freedom was absolute and entire, that no tie of honour or
compassion bound him to me, but that, on the contrary,
to dispose of his affections elsewhere would probably be
most conducive to the interests of both.

These cautious proceedings were extremely un pleasing
to my cousin, who pretended to be deeply mortified at any
thing betokening indifference, and terribly alarmed at the

JANE TALBOT. 21

possibility of losing me. On the whole, I confess to you,
that I thought my cousin and I were destined for each
other, and felt myself, if I may so speak, not in love
with him, but prepared, at the bidding of discretion, to
love him.

My brother's report, therefore, greatly distressed me.
Should my cousin prove a reprobate, no power on earth
should compel me to be his. If his character should prove
blameless, and my heart raise no obstacles, at a proper
time I should act with absolute independence of my bro-
ther's inclinations. The menace that while he had voice
or arm he would hinder my choice of Risberg made the
less impression as it related to an event necessarily distant,
and which probably might nevei; happen.

The next letter fron^Rjsberg put an end to all further
intercourse between us.^ ferinformed us of hi3_being on
t he eve of marriage into an opulent family. Itexpressed
much indignation at the calumny which had prevailed
with my father to withdraw his protection ; declared that
he deemed himself by no means equitably or respectfully
treated by him ; expressed gratitude to my mother for
the supply she had remitted, which had arrived very sea-
sonably and prevented him from stooping to humiliations
which might have injured his present happy prospects ;
and promised to repay the sum as soon as possible. This
promise was punctually performed, and Risberg assured
me that he was as happy as a lovely and rich wife could
make him.

I was satisfied with this result, and bestowed no further
thought on that subject. From morn to midnight have I
written, and have got but little way in my story. Adieu.

LETTER IV.
To Senry Colden.

Wednesday Morning, October 5.

I CONTINUED my visits to my father as usual. Affairs
proceeded nearly in their old channel. Frank and I never
met but by accident, and our interviews began and ended

22 JANE TALBOT.

merely with a good-morrow. I never mentioned Ri8berg'8
name to my father, and observed that he as studiously
avoided lighting on the same topic.

One day a friend chanced to mention the greatness of
my fortune, and congratulated me on my title to two such
large patrimonies as those of Mrs. Fielder and my father.
I was far from viewing my condition in the same light
with my friend. My mother's fortune was indeed large
and permanent, but my claim to it was merely through
her voluntary favour, of which a thousand accidents might
bereave me. As to my father's property, Frank had
taken care very early to suggest to him that I was amply
provided for in Mrs. Fielder's good graces, and that it was
equitable to bequeath the whole inheritance to him. This
disposition, indeed, was not made without my knowledge ;
but though I was sensible that I held of my maternal friend
but a very precarious tenure, that my character and edu-
cation were likely to secure a much wiser and more useful
application of money than my brother's habits, it was
impossible for me openly to object to this arrangement;
so that, as things stood, though the world, in estimating
my merits, never forgot that my father was rich, and that
Frank and I were his only children, I had in reality no
prospect of inheriting a farthing from him.

Indeed, I always entertained a presentiment that I should
one day be poor, and have to rely for subsistence on my
own labour. With this persuasion, I frequently busied my
thoughts in imagining the most lucrative and decent means
of employing my ingenuity, and directed my inquiries to
many things of little or no use but on the irksome sup-
position that I should one day live by my own labour.
But this is a digression.

In answer to my friend's remarks, I observed that my
father's property was much less considerable than some
people imagined ; that time made no accession to it ; and
that my brother's well-known habits were likely to reduce
it much below its present standard, long before it would
come to a division.

" There, Jane, you are mistaken," said my friend, " or
rather you are willing to mislead me; for you must know
that, though your father appears to be idle, yet your

JANE TALBOT. 23

brother is speculating •with his money at an enormous
rate."

"And pray," said I, (for I did not wish to betray all
the surprise that this intelligence gave me,) "in what
speculations is he engaged?"

" How should I tell you, who scarcely know the mean-
ing of the word ? I only heard my father say that young
Talbot, though seemingly swallowed up in pleasure, knew
how to turn a penny as Avell as another, and was employ-
ing his father's wealth in speculation; that, I remember,
was his word, but I never, for my part, took the trouble
to inquire what speculation meant. I know only that it is
some hazardous or complicated way of getting money."

These hints, though the conversation passed imme-
diately to other subjects, made a deep impression on my
mind. My brother's character I knew to be incompati-
ble with any sort of industry, and had various reasons
for believing my father's property to be locked up in
bank-stock. If my friend's story were true, there was a
new instance of the influence which Frank had acquired
over his father. I had very indistinct ideas of specula-
tion, but was used to regard it as something very hazard-
ous, and almost criminal.

I told my mother all my uneasiness. She thought it
worth while to take some means of getting at the truth,
in conversation with my father. Agreeably to her advice,
on my next visit I opened the subject, by repeating exactly
what, I heard. I concluded by asking if it were true.

" Why, yes," said he ; " it is partly true, I must confess.
Some time ago Frank laid his projects before me, and
they appeared so promising and certain of success, that
I ventured to give him possession of a large sum."

"And what scheme, sir, was it, if I may venture to ask?"

" Why, child, these are subjects so much out of thy way,
that thou wouldst hardly comprehend any explanation
that I could give."

"Perhaps so; but what success, dear sir, have you
met with?"

" Why, I can't but say that affairs have not been quite
as expeditious in their progress as I had reason, at first,
to expect. Unlooked-for delays and impediments will

24 J.'i-^'E TALBOT.

occur in tlie prosecution of the best schemes ; and these,
I must own, have been well enough accounted for."

"But, dear sir, the scheme, I doubt not, was very
beneficial that induced you to hazard your vfhole fortune.
I thought you had absolutely withdrawn yourself from
all the hazards and solicitudes of business."

" Why, indeed, I had so, and should never have engaged
again in them of my own accord. Indeed, I trouble not
myself with any details at present. I am just as much at
my ease as I used |iO be. I leave every thing to Frank."

"But, sir, the hazard, the uncertainty, of all projects!
Would you expose yourself at this time of life to the
possibility of being reduced to distress ? And had you
not enough already?"

"Why, what you say, Jane, is very true: these things
did occur to me, and they strongly disinclined me, at first,
from your brother's proposals; but, I don't know how it
was, he made out the thing to be so very advantageous;
the success of it so infallible ; and his own wants were so
numerous that my whole income was insuflScient to supply
them ; the Lord knows how it has happened. In my time,
I could live upon a little. Even with a wife and family, my
needs did not require a fourth of the sum that Frank, with-
out wife or child, contrives to spend ; yet I can't object
neither. He makes it out that he spends no more than
his rank in life, as he calls it, indispensably requires.
Rather than encroach upon my funds, and the prospects
of success being so very flattering, and Frank so very
urgent and so very sanguine, whose own interest it is to
be sure of his footing, I even, at last, consented."

"But I hope, dear sir, your prudence provided in some
degree against the possibility of failure. No doubt you
reserved something which might serve as a stay to your old
age in case this hopeful project miscarried. Absolutely
to hazard all on the faith of any project whatever was
unworthy of one of your experience and discretion."

My father, Henry, was a good man, — humane, affec-
tionate, kind, and of strict integrity; but I scarcely need
to add, after what I have already related, that his under-
standing was far from being vigorous, or his temper firm.
His foibles, indeed, acquired strength as he advanced

JANE TALBOT. 2$

in years, -wliile his kindness and benevolence remained
undiminished.

His acquiescence in my brother's schemes can hardly
be ranked with follies: you, who know what scheme it
was, who know the intoxicating influence of a specious
project, and, especially, the wonderful address and plau-
sibility of Catling, the adventurer who was my brother's
prime minister and chief agent in that ruinous transac-
tion, will not consider their adopting the phantom as any
proof of the folly of either father or son. But let me
return. To my compliment to his experience and dis-
cretion, my father replied, " Why, truly, I hardly know
how it may turn out^i the long run. At first, indeed, I
only consented to come down with a few thousands, the
total loss of which would not break my heart ; but this,
it seems, though it was all they at first demanded, did
not prove quite sufiicient. Some debts they were obliged
to contract,-y-to no great amount, indeed, — and these
must be paid or the scheme relinquished. Having gone
so far into the scheme, it was absurd to let a trifle stop
me. I must own, had I foreseen all the demands that
have been made from time to time, I should never have
engaged irrit; but I have been led on from one step to
another, till I fear it would avail me nothing to hesitate
or hold back ; and Frank's representations are so very
plausible !" ^

" Does your whole subsistence, then, my dear sir, de-
pend on the success of this scheme ? Suppose it should
utterly fail: what will be the consequences to yourself?"

" Fail ! That is impossible. It cannot fail but
through want of money, and I am solemnly assured that
no more will be necessary."

"But how often, sir, has this assurance been given ?
No doubt with as much solemnity the first time as the
last."

My father began to grow impatient : — " It is useless,
Jane, to start diiSculties and objections now. It is too
late to go back, §ven if I were disinclined to go forward ;
and I have no doubt of ultimate success. Be a good
girl, and you shall come in for a share of the profit.
Mrs. Fielder and I, between us, will make you the richest

26 JAXE TALBOT.

heiress in America. Let that consideration reconcile
you to the scheme."

I could not but smile at this argument. I well knew
that my brother's rapacity was not to be satisfied with
millions. To sit down and say, "I have enough," was
utterly incompatible with his character. I dropped the
conversation for the present.

My thoughts were full of uneasiness. The mere sound
of the word "project" alarmed me. I had little desire
of knowing the exact nature of the scheme, being nowise
C(ualified to judge of its practicability; but a scheme in
which my brother was the agent, in which my father's
whole property was hazarded, and which appeared, from
the account I had just heard, at least not to have ful-
filled the first expectations, could not be regarded with
tranquillity.

I took occasion to renew the subject with my father,
Bom'e time after this. I could only deal in general ob-
servations on the imprudence of putting independence
and subsistence to hazard : though the past was not to
be recalled, yet the future was his own, and it would not
be unworthy of him to act with caution. I was obliged to
mingle this advice with much foreign matter, and convey it
in the most indirect and gentle terms. His pride was easily
oifended at being thought to want the counsel of a girl.

He replied to my remarks with confidence, that no
further demand would be made upon him. The last sum
was given with extreme reluctance, and nothing but the
positive assurance that it would absolutely be the last
had prevailed with him.

"Suppose, sir," said I, "what you have already given
should prove insufficient. Suppose some new demand
should be made upon you."

"I cannot suppose that, after so many solemn and
positive assurances."

"But were not assurances as positive and solemn on
every former occasion as the last?"

"Why, yes, I must own they were; but new circum-
stances arose that could not be foreseen?"

"And, dear sir, may not new circumstances arise
hereafter that could not be foreseen ?"

JANE TALBOT. 2/

"Nay, nay," (with some impatience;) "I tell you
there cannot be any.''

I said no more on this subject at this time ; but my
father, notwithstanding the confidence he expressed, was
far from being at ease.

One day I found him in great perturba-tion. I met
my brother, who was going out as I entered, and sus-
pected the cause of his disquiet. He spoke less than
usual, and sighed deeply. I endeavoured, by various
means, to prevail on him to communicate his thoughts,
and at last succeeded. My brother, it seems, had made
a new demand upon his purse, and he had been brought
reluctantly to consent to raise the necessary sum by a
mortgage on his house, the only real property he pos-
sessed. My brother had gone to procure a lender and
prepare the deeds.

I was less surprised at this intelligence than grieved.
I thought I saw my father's ruin was inevitable, and
knew not how to prevent or procrastinate it. After a
long pause, I ventured to insinuate that, as the thing was
yet to be done, as there was still time for deliberation

"No, no," interrupted he; "I must go on. It is too
late to repent. Unless new funds are supplied, all that
we have hitherto done will go for nothing ; and Frank
assures me that one more sacrifice and all will be well."

"Alas, sir, are you still deceived by that language ?
Can you still listen to assurances which experience has so
often shown to be fallacious ? 1 know nothing of this fine
project ; but I can see too clearly that unless you hold your
hand you will be undone. Would to Heaven you would
hesitate a moment !" I said a great deal more to the same
purpose, and was at length interrupted by a message from
my brother, who desired to see me a few minutes in the
parlour below. Though at a loss as to what could occasion
such an unusual summons, I hastened down.

I found my brother with a strange mixture of pride,
perplexity, and solicitude in his looks. His " how d'ye ?"
was delivered in a graver tone than common, and he be-
trayed a disposition to conciliate my good- will, far beyond
what I had ever witnessed before. I waited with im-
patience to hear what he had to communicate.

28 JANE TALBOT.

At last, witli many pauses and much hesitation, he said,
"Jane, I suppose your legacy is untouched. Was it two
or three thousand Mrs. Matthews put you down for in
her will?"

" The sum was three thousand dollars. You know that,
though it was left entirely at my own disposal, yet the he-
quest was accompanied with advice to keep it unimpaired
till I should want it for my own proper subsistence. On
that condition I received, and on that condition shall
keep it."

"I am glad of it with all my heart," replied he, with
affected vivacity. " I was afraid you had spent it by this
time on dolls, trinkets, and baby-things. The sum is
entire, you say ? In your drawer ? I am surprised you
could resist the temptation to spend it. I wonder nobody
thought of robbing you."

" You cannot suppose, brother, I would keep that sum
in my possession ? You know it was in bank at my aunt's
death, and there it has remained."

"At what bank, pr'ythee?"

I told him.

" Well, I am extremely glad thou hadst wit enough to
keep it snug, for now the time has come to put it to some
use. My father and I have a scheme on foot by which
we shall realize immense proiit. The more engines we set
to work, the greater and more speedy will be the ultimate
advantage. It occurred to me that you had some money,
and that, unless it were better employed, it would be but
justice to allow you to throw it into stock. If, therefore,
you are willing, it shall be done. What say you, Jane ?"

This proposal was totally unexpected. I harboured not
a moment's doubt as to the conduct it became me to pursue ;
but how to declare my resolutions, or state my reasons for
declining his offer, I knew not.

At last I stammered out that my aunt had bequeathed
me this money with views as to the future disposition of
it from which I did not think myself at liberty to swerve.

"And pray," said he, with some heat, "what were these
profound views?"

" They were simple and obvious views. She knew my
sex and education laid me under peculiar difficulties as to

JANE TALBOT. 29

subsistence. As affairs then stood, there was little danger
of my ever being reduced to want or dependence ; but still
there was a possibility of this. To insure me against this
possible evil, she left me this sum, to be used only for sub-
sistence, and when I should be deprived of all other means."

"Go on," said my brother. "Repeat the clause in
which she forbids you, if at any time the opportunity should
be offered of doubling or trebling your money and thereby
effectually securing that independence which she wished
to bequeath to you, to profit by the offer. Pray, repeat
that clause."

" Indeed," said I, innocently, " there is no such clause."

" I am glad to hear it. I was afraid that she was silly
enough to insert some such prohibition. On the contrary,
the scheme I propose to you will merely execute your
aunt's great purpose. Instead of forbidding, she would
have earnestly exhorted you, had she been a prophetess
as well as a saint, to close with such an offer as I now
make you, in which, I can assure you, I have your own
good as well as my own in view."

Observing my silent and perplexed air, " Why, Jane,"
said he, " surely you cannot hesitate? What is your ob-
jection ? Perhaps you are one of those provident animals
who look before they leap, and, having gained a monopoly
of wisdom, will take no scheme upon trust. You must
examine with your own eyes. I will explain the affair to
you, if you choose, and convince you beyond controversy
that your money may be trebled in a twelvemonth."

"You know, brother, I can be no judge of any scheme
that is at all intricate."

" There is no intricacy here. All is perfectly simple
and obvious. I can make the case as plain to you, in
three minutes, as that you have two thumbs. In the
English cottons, in the first place, there is "

" Nay, brother, it is entirely unnecessary to explain the
scheme. My determinations will not be influenced by
a statement which no mortal eloquence will make intel-
ligible to me."

"Well, then, you consent to my proposal ?"

" I would rather you would look elsewhere for a part-
ner in your undertaking."

30 JANE TALBOT.

" The girl's a fool ! — Why, what do you fear ? suspect ?
You surely cannot doubt my being faithful to your in-
terest ? You will not insult me so much as to suppose
that I would defraud you of your money ? If you do, — ■
for I know I do not stand very high in your opinion, — if
you doubt my honesty, I will give you the common proofs
of having received your money. Nay, so certain am I of
success, that I will give you my note, bond, what you
please, for thrice the amount, payable in one year."

" My brother's bond will be of no use to me ; I shall
never go to law with my brother."

"Well, then, what will satisfy you?"

"I am easily satisfied, brother. I am contented with
things just as they are. The sum, indeed, is a trifle, but
it will answer all my humble purposes."

" Then you will," replied he, struggling with his rage,
"you will not agree?"

My silence was an unequivocal answer.

"You turn out to be what I always thought you, — a
little, perverse, stupid, obstinate — But take time;" (soft-
ening his tone a little ;) " take time to consider of it.

" Some unaccountable oddity, some freak, must have
taken hold of you just now and turned your wits out of
door. 'Tis impossible you should deliberately reject such
an offer. Why, girl, three thousand dollars has a great
sound, perhaps, to your ears, but you'll find it a most
wretched pittance if you should ever be obliged to live
upon it. The interest would hardly buy you garters and
topknots. You live, at this moment, at the rate of six
times the sum. You are now a wretched and precarious
dependant on Mrs. Fielder : her marriage (a very likely
thing for one of her habits, fortune, and age) will set you
afloat in the world ; and then where will be your port ?
Your legacy, in any way you can employ it, will not find
you bread. Three times the sum might answer, perhaps ;
and that, if you will fall on my advice, you may now at-
tain in a single twelvemonth. Consider these things, and
I will call on you in the evening for your final answer."

He was going, but I mustered resolution enough to call
him back : — "Brother, one word. All deliberation in this
case is superfluous. You may think my decision against

JAXE TALBOT. 3 I

SO plausible a scheme perverse and absurd; but, in this
instance, I am fully sensible that I have a right to do as
1 please, and shall exert that right, -whatever censure
I may incur."

" So, then, you are determined not to part with your
paltry legacy?"

"I am determined not to part with it."

His eyes sparkled with rage, and, stamping on the
floor, he exclaimed, "Why, then, let me tell you, miss,
you are a damned idiot. I knew you were a fool, but could
not believe that your folly would ever carry you to these
lengths !" — Much more in this style did poor Frank utter
on this occasion. I listened trembling, confounded,
vexed, and, as soon as I could recover presence of mind,
hastened out of his presence.

This dialogue occupied all my thoughts during that day
and the following. I was sitting, next evening,^t twi-
light, pensively, in my own apartment, when, to myinfinite
surprise, my brother was announced. At parting with him
the day before, he swore vehemently that he would never
see my face again if he could help it. I supposed this
resolution had given way to his anxiety to gain my con-
currence with his schemes, and would fain have shunned
a second interview. This, however, was impossible. I
therefore composed my tremors as well as I was able, and
directed him to be admitted. The angry emotions of
yesterday had disappeared from his countenance, and he
addressed me with his customary carelessness. After a
few trifling preliminaries, he asked me if I had considered
the subject of our yesterday's conversation. I answered
that I had supposed that subject to have been dismissed
forever. It was not possible for time or argument to bring
us to the same way of thinking on it. I hoped, therefore,
that he would not compel me to discuss it a second
time.

Instead of flying into rage, as I expected, he fixed his
eyes thoughtfully on the floor, and, after a melancholy
pause, said, "I expected to find you invincible on that
head. To say truth, I came not to discuss that subject
with you anew. I came merely to ask a trifling favour."
Here he stopped. He was evidently at a loss how to

32 JANE TALBOT.

proceed. His features became more grave, and he
actually sighed.

My heart, I believe thou knoweet, Harry, is the sport,
the mere plaything, of gratitude and pity. Kindness
will melt my firmest resolutions in a moment. Entreaty
will lead me to the world's end. Gentle accents, mourn-
ful looks, in my brother, was a claim altogether irresist-
ible. The mildness, the condescension which I now wit-
nessed thrilled to my heart. A grateful tear rushed to
my eye, and I almost articulated, "Dear, dear brother,
be always thus kind and thus good, and I will lay down
my life for you."

It was well for us both that my brother had too much
pride or too little cunning to profit by the peculiarities
of my temper. Had he put a brotherly arm around me,
and said, in an affectionate tone, "Dear sister, oblige
me," I am afraid I should have instantly complied with
the most indiscreet and extravagant of his requests.

Far otherwise, however, was his deportment. This
condescension was momentary. The words had scarcely
escaped him before he seemed to recollect them as having
been unworthy of his dignity. He resumed his arrogant
and careless air, half whistled "9a ira," and glanced at
the garden, with, "A tall poplar that. How old?"

"Not very old, for /planted it."

"Very likely. Just such another giddy head and
slender body as the planter's. But, now I think of it,
Jane, since your money is idle, suppose you lend me five
hundred dollars of it till to-morrow. Upon my honour,
I'll repay it then. My calls just now are particularly
urgent. See here; I have brought a check ready filled.
It only wants your signature."

I felt instant and invincible repugnance to this request.
I had so long regarded my brother as void of all discretion,
and as habitually misapplying money to vicious purposes,
that I deemed it a crime of no inconsiderable degree to
supply the means of his prodigality. Occasions were
daily occurring in which much good was effected by a few
dollars, as well as much evil produced by the want of them.
My imagination pondered on the evils of poverty much
oftener than perhaps was useful, and had thence contracted

JANE TALBOT. 33

a terror .of it not easily controlled. My legacy I liad
always regarded as a sacred deposit, — an asylum in dis-
tress which nothing hut the most egregious folly would
roh or dissipate. Yet now I vras called upon to transfer,
by one stroke of the pen, to one who appeared to me to
be engaged in ruinous vices or chimerical projects, so large
a portion as five hundred dollars.

I was no niggardly hoarder of the allowance made me
by my mother; but so diffident was I of my own dis-
cernment, that I never laid out twenty dollars without
her knowledge and concurrence. Could I then give away
jive hundred of this sacred treasure, bestowed on me for
very different purposes, without her knowledge ? It was
useless to acquaint her with my brother's request and
solicit her permission. She would never grant it.

My brother, observing me hesitate, said, " Come, Jane ;
make haste. Surely this is no such mighty favour, that you
should stand a moment. 'Twill be all the same to you,
since I return it to-morrow. May I perish if I don't!"

I still declined the offered pen: — "For what purpose,
brother, surely I may ask ? — so large a sum ?"

He laughed : — "A mere trifle, girl ; 'tis a bare nothing.
But, much or little, you shall have it again, I tell you,
to-morrow. Come ; time flics. Take the pen, I say, and
make no more words about the matter."

"Impossible, till I know the purpose. Do not urge
me to a wrong thing."

His face reddened with indignation. "A wrong thing !
you are fool enough to tire the patience of a saint. What
do I ask, but the loan of a few dollars for a single day ?
Money that is absolmely idle ; for which you have no
use. You know that my father's property is mine, and
that my possessions are twenty times greater than your
own; yet you refuse to lend this paltry sum for one day.
Come, Jane, sister; you have carried your infatuation
far enough. Where a raw girl should gain all these
scruples and punctilios I can't imagine. Pray, what is
your objection?"

In these contests with my brother, I was never mistress
of my thoughts. Plis boisterous, negligent, contemptuous
manners awed, irritated, embarrassed me. To say any
3

34 JANE TALBOT.

thing ■\^l)icll implied censure of his morals or his prudence
would be only raising a storm -which my M'omanish spirit
could not withstand. In answer to his expostulations, I
only repeated, "Impossible! I cannot."

Finding me inflexible, he once more gave way to indig-
nation: — "What a damned oaf! to be thus creeping and
cringing to an idiot — a child — an ape ! Nothing but neces-
sity, cruel necessity, would have put me on this- task."
Then turning to me, he said, in a tone half supplicating,
half threatening, "Let me ask you once more: will you
sign this check ? Do not answer hastily ; for much, very
much, depends on it. By all that is sacred, I will return
it to you to-morrow. Do it, and save me and your father
from infamy; from ruin; from a prison; from death.^
He may have cowardice enough to live and endure his'
infamy, but /have spirit enough to die and escape it."

This was uttered with an impetuosity that startled me.
The words ruin, prison, death, rung in my ears, and,
almost out of breath, I exclaimed, "What do you mean?
my father go to prison ? my father ruined ? What do
you mean?"

"I mean what I say. Your signing this check may
save me from irretrievable ruin. This trifling supply,
which I can nowhere else procure, if it comes to-night,
may place us out of danger. If delayed till to-morrow
morning, there will be no remedy. I shall receive an
adequate sum to-morrow afternoon, and with that I will
replace this."

"My father ruined! In danger of a jail! Good
Heaven ! Let me fly to him. Let me know from himself
the full extent of the evil." I Idft my seat with this
purpose, but he stopped me: — "Are you mad, girl? He
does not know the full extent of the evil. Indeed, the
evil will be perfectly removed by this trifling loan. He
need not know it."

"Ah! my poor father," said I, "I see thy ruin indeed.
Too fatally secure hast thou been ; too doting in thy con-
fidence in others." These words, half articulated, did
not escape my brother. He was at once astonished and
enraged by them, and even in these circumstances could
not suppress his resentment.

JANE TALBOT. 35

He had, however, conjured up a sph-it in me which made
me deaf to his invective. I made towards the door.

" Where are you going ? You shall not leave the room
till you have signed this paper."

"Nothing but force shall keep me from my father. I
will know his true situation this instant, from his own
lips. Let me go. I will go."

I attempted to rush by him, but he shut the door and
swore I should not leave the room till I had complied
with his request.

Perceiving me thoroughly in earnest, and indignant in
my turn at his treatment, he attempted to soothe me, by
saying that I had misunderstood him in relation to my
father ; that he had uttered words at random ; that ho
was really out of cash at this moment; I should inex-
pressibly oblige him by lending him this trifling sum till
to-morrow evening.

"Brother, I will deal candidly with you. You think
me childish, ignorant, and giddy. Perhaps I am so ; but
I have sense enough to resolve, and firmness enough to
adhere to my resolution, never to give money without
thoroughly knowing and fully approving of the purposes
to which it is to be applied. You tell me you are in
extreme want of an immediate supply. Of what nature
is your necessity ? What has occasioned your necessity ?
I will not withhold what will really do you good, — what
I am thoroughly convinced will do you good ; but I must
first be convinced."

" What would you have more than my word ? I tell
you it will save your — I tell you it will serve me essen-
tially. It is surely needless to enter into long and intri-
cate details, which, ten to one, you will not under-
stand."

"As you please," said I. "I have told you that I
will not act in the dark."

"Well, then, I will explain my situation to you as
clearly as possible."

He then proceeded to state transactions of which I un-
derstood nothing. All was specious and plausible ; but
I easily perceived the advantages under which he spoke,
and the gross folly of suffering my conduct to be influ-

36 JANE TALBOT.

enced by representations of wliose integrity I had no
means of judging.

I will not detain you longer by this conversation. Suf-
fice it to say, that I positively refused to comply with his
wishes. The altercation that ensued was fortunately in-
terrupted by the entrance of two or three visitants, and,
after lingering a few minutes, he left the house gloomy
and dissatisfied.

I have gone into these incidents with a minuteness that
I fear has tired you; but I v/ill be more concise for the
future. These incidents are chiefly introductory to others
of a more affecting nature, and to those I must now hasten.
Meanwhile, I will give some little respite to my fingers.

LETTER VI.
To Henry Oolden.

Thursday Morning-, October 6.

As soon as my visita.nts had gone, I hastened to my
father. I immediately introduced the subject of which
my heart was full. I related the particulars of my late
interview with my brother ; entreated him with the utmost
earnestness to make the proper inquiries into the state of
my brother's affairs, with whose fate it was too plain that
his own were inextricably involved.

He was seized with extreme solicitude on hearing my
intelligence. He could not keep his chair one moment at
a time, but walked about the floor trembling. He called
his servant, and directed him, in a faltering voice, to go
to my brother's house and request him to come imme-
diately.

I was sensible that what I had done was violently ad-
verse to my brother's wishes. Nevertheless, I urged my
father to an immediate explanation, and determined to be
present at the conference.

The messenger returned. My brother was not at home.
We waited a little while, and then despatched the messen-
ger again, Avith directions to wait till his return. We
waited, in vain, till nine ; ten ; eleven o'clock. The mes-

JANE TALBOT. 37

senger then came back, informing us tKat Frank was still
abroad. I was obliged to dismiss the hope of a confer-
ence this night, and returned in an anxious and melan-
choly mood to Mrs. Fielder's.

On my way, while ruminating on these events, I began
to fear that I had exerted an unjustifiable degree of cau-
tion. I knew that those who embark in pecuniary schemes
are often reduced to temporary straits and difficulties ; that
ruin and prosperity frequently hang on the decision of the
moment ; that a gap may be filled up by a small efi'ort sea-
sonably made, which, if neglected, rapidly widens and irre-
vocably swallows up the ill-fated adventurer.

It was possible that all my brother had said was literally
true ; that he merited my confidence in this instance, and
that the supply he demanded would save both him and my
father from the ruin that impended over them. The more
I pondered on the subject, the more dissatisfied I became
with my own scruples. In this state of mind I reached
home. The servant, while opening the door, expressed
her surprise at my staying out so late, telling me that
my brother had been waiting my return for several hours,
with marks of the utmost impatience. I shuddered at
this intelligence, though just before I had almost formed
the resolution of going to his house and ofi'ering him the
money he wanted.

I found him in my apartment. " Good God !" cried he ;
"where have you been till this time of night?"

I told him frankly where I had been, and what had de-
tained me. He was thunder-struck. Instead of that storm
of rage and invective which I expected, he grew pale with
consternation, and said, in a faint voice, —

" Jane, you have ruined me beyond redemption. Fatal,
fatal rashness ! It was enough to have refused me a loan
which, though useless to you, is as indispensable to my
existence as my heart's blood. Had you quietly lent me
the trifling pittance I asked, all might yet have been
well, — my father's peace have been saved and my own
affairs been completely re-established."

All arrogance and indignation were now laid aside.
His tone and looks betokened the deepest distress. All
the firmness, reluctance, and wariness of my temper van-

38 JANE TALBOT.

ished in a moment. My heart was seized with an agony
of compunction. I came close to him, and, taking his
hand involuntarily, said, "Dear brother, forgive me."

Strange what influence calamity possesses in softening
the character ! He made no answer, but, putting his arms
around me, pressed me to his breast, while tears stole
down his cheek.

Now was I thoroughly subdued. I am quite an April
girl, thou knowest, Harry, and the most opposite emo-
tions fill, with equal certainty, my eyes. I could scarcely
articulate, " Oh, my dear brother, forgive me. Take what
you ask. If it can be of any service to you, take all I
have."

" But how shall I see my father ? Infinite pains have
I taken to conceal from him a storm which I thought
could be easily averted, which his knowledge of it would
only render more difficult to resist ; but my cursed folly,
by saying more than I intended to you, has blasted my
designs."

I again expressed my regret for the rashness of my
conduct, and entreated him to think better of my father
than to imagine him invincible to argument. I promised
to go to him in the morning, and counteract, as much as
I could, the effects of my evening conversation. At length
he departed, with somewhat renovated spirits, and left me
to muse upon the strange events of this day.

I could not free myself from the secret apprehension
of having done mischief rather than good by my com-
pliance. I had acted without consulting my mother, in
a case where my youth and inexperience stood in the ut-
most need of advice. On the most trivial occasions I had
hitherto held it a sacred duty to make her the arbitress
and judge of my whole conduct; and now shame for my
own precipitance and regard for my brother's feelings
seemed to join in forbidding me to disclose what had
passed. A most restless and unquiet night did I pass.

Next morning was I to go to my father, to repair as
much as possible the breach I had thoughtlessly made in
his happiness. I knew not what means to employ for this
purpose. What could I say ? I was far from being satis-
fied, myself, with my brother's representations. I hoped,

JANE TALBOT. 39

but had very little confidence that any thing in my power
to do -would be of permanent advantage.

These doubts did not make me defer my visit. I -was
greatly surprised to find my father as cheerful and serene
as usual, -which he quickly accounted for by telling me that
he had just had a long conversation -with Frank, -who had
convinced him that there -was no ground for the terrors
I had inspired him with the night before. He could not
forbear a little acrimony on the impropriety of my in-
terference, and I tacitly acquiesced in the censure. I
found that he knew nothing of the sum I had lent, and I
thought not proper to mention it. j

That day, notwithstanding his promises of payment^
passed away without hearing from my brother. I had
never laid any stress upon the promise, but drew a bad
omen from this failure.

A few days elapsed without any material incident. The
next occasion on which my brother was introduced into
conversation with Mrs. Fielder took place one evening
after my friend had returned from spending the day
abroad. After a pause, in which there was more sig-
nificance than usual, — "Pray, have you seen Frank
lately?"

I made some vague answer.

" He has been talked about this afternoon, very little,
as usual, to his advantage."

I trembled from head to foot.

"I fear," continued she, "he is going to ruin, and will
drag your father down the same precipice."

"Dearest madam! what new circumstance?"

"Nothing very new. It seems Mr. Frazer — ^his wife
told the story — sold him, a twelvemonth ago, a curricle
and pair of horses. Part of the money, after some delay,
was paid. The rest was dunned for unavailingly a long
time. At length curricle and horses scoured the roads
under the management of Monsieur Petitgrave, brother to
Frank's housekeeper, the handsome mustee. This gave
Frazer uneasiness, and some importunity extorted from
Frank a note, which, being due last Tuesday, was, at
Frank's importunity, withdrawn from bank to prevent
protest. Next day, however, it was paid."

40 JANE TALBOT.

1 ventured to ask if Mrs. Frazer had mentioned any
sum. "Yes; a round sum, — five hundred dollars."

Fortunately the dark prevented my mother from per-
ceiving my confusion. It was Tuesday evening on vAich
I had lent the money to Frank. He had given me rea-
son to believe that his embarrassments arose from his
cotton-'iTeaving scheme, and that the sum demanded
from me was to pay the wages of craving but worthy
labourers.

While in the first tumult of these reflections, some
one brought a letter. It was from my brother. This
was the tenor : —

"I fear, Jane, I have gained but little credit with you
for punctuality. I ought to have fulfilled my promise,
you will say. I will not excuse my breach of it by say-
ing (though I might say so, perhaps, with truth) that you
have no use for the money ; that I have pressing use for
it, and that a small delay, without being of any import-
ance to you, will be particularly convenient to me. No ;
the true and all-sufficient reason why I did not return
the money was — because I had it not. To convince you
that I am really in need, I enclose you a check for an-
other five hundred, which you'll much oblige me by sign-
ing. I can repay you both sums together by Saturday, —
if you needs must have it so soon. The bearer waits."

In any state of my thoughts, there was little likeli-
hood of my complying with a request made in these
terms. With my present feelings, it was difEcult to for-
bear returning an angry and reproachful answer. I sent
him back these lines : —

" I am thoroughly convinced that it is not in my power
to afibrd you any effectual aid in your present difficulties.
It will be very easy to injure myself. The request you
make can have no other tendency. I must therefore
decline complying."

The facility with which I had yielded up my first reso-
lutions probably encouraged him to this second applica-
tion, and I formed very solemn resolutions not to be
seduced a second time.

In a few minutes after despatching my answer, he ap-
peared. I need not repeat our conversation. He ex-

JANE TALBOT. 4 1

torted from me, without much difficulty, what I had
heard through my mother, and — methinks I am ashamed
to confess it — by exchanging his boisterous airs for pa-
thetic ones, by appealing to my sisterly affection and
calling me his angel and saviour, and especially by so-
lemnly affirming that Frazer's story was a calumny, I
at length did as he would have me : yet only for three
hundred ; I would not go beyond that sum.

The moment he left me, I perceived the weakness and
folly of my conduct in the strongest light. I renewed
all my prudent determinations; yet, strange to tell,
within less than a week, the same scene of earnest im-
portunity on his side, and of foolish flexibility on mine,
was reacted. '

With every new instance of folly, my shame and self-
condemnation increased, and the more difficult I found
it to disclose the truth to my mother.

In the course of a very few days, one-half of my little
property was gone. A sum sufficient, according to my
system of economy, to give me decent independence of
the world for at least three years, had been dissipated
^y the prodigality of a profligate woman. At the time,
indeed, I was ignorant of this. It was impossible not to
pay some regard to the plausible statements and vehe-
ment asseverations of my brother, and to suffer them to
weigh something against charges which might possibly be
untrue. As soon as accident had put me in full pos-
session of the truth on this head, I was no longer thus
foolishly obsequious.

The next morning after our last interview I set out,
as usual, to bid good-morrow to my father. My uneasy
thoughts led me unaware to extend my walk, till I reached
the door of a watchmaker with whom my servant had,
some time before, left a watch to be repaired. It occurred
to me that, since I was now on the spot, I might as well
stop and make some inquiry about it. On entering the
shop I almost repented of my purpose, as two persons
were within the bar, if I may call it so, seated in a
lounging posture, by a small stove, smoking cigars and
gazing at me with an air of indolent impertinence. I
determined to make my stay as short as possible, and

42 JANE TALBOT.

hurried over a few questions to the artist, who knew me
only as the owner of the watch. My attention was
quickly roused by one of the loungers, who, having satis-
fied his curiosity by gazing at me, turned to the other
and said, " Well, you have hardly been to Frank's this
morning, I suppose?"

"Indeed, but I have," was the reply.
"Why, damn it, you pinch too hard. Well, and what
success 'i"

"Why, what do you think ?"

"Another j»w^c^'; another call-again, to-be-sure."
"I would not go till he downed with the stuff."
"No !" (with a broad stare;) "it a'n't possible."
"Seeing is believing, I hope;" (producing a piece of
paper.)

"Why, so it is. A check! — but — what's that name?
— let's see," (stooping to examine the signature :) —
'■'■Jane Talbot. Who the devil is she?"

"Don't you know her? She's his sister. A devilish
rich girl."

"But how ? does she lend him money?"
"Yes, to-be-sure. She's his sister, you know."
"But how does she get money? Is she a widow?"
"No. She is a girl, I've heard, not eighteen. 'Tia
not my look-out how she gets money, so as her check's
good; and that I'll fix as soon as the door's open."

"AYhy, damn it if I don't think it a forgery. How
should such a girl as that get so much money?"

" Can't conceive. Coax or rob her aunt of it, I sup-
pose. If she's such another as Frank, she is able to
outwit the devil. I hope it may be good. If it isn't,
he sha'n't be his own man one day longer."
"But how did you succeed so well?"
"He asked me yesterday to call once more. So I
called, you see, betimes, and, finding that he had a
check for a little more than my debt, I teased him out
of it, promising to give him the balance. I pity the
fellow from my soul. It was all for trinkets and furni-
ture bought by that prodigal jade. Mademoiselle Cou-
teau. She would ruin a prince, if she had him as much
at her command as she has Frank. Little does the sister

JANE TALBOT. 43

know for what purpose she gives her money : however,
that, as I said before, be her look-out."

During this dialogue, my eye was fixed upon the artist,
who, with the watch open in one hand, and a piece of wire
in the other, was describing, with great formality, the
exact nature of the defect and the whole process of the
cure ; but, though I looked steadfastly at him, I heard not
a syllable of his dissertation. I broke away when his
first pause allowed me.

The strongest emotion in my heart was resentment.
That my name should be prostituted by the foul mouths
of such wretches, and my money be squandered for the
gratification of a meretricious vagabond, were indignities
not to be endured. I was carried involuntarily towards
my brother's house. I had lost all that awe in his pre-
sence and trepidation at his scorn which had formerly
been so troublesome. His sarcasms or revilings had
become indifferent to me, as every day's experience had
of late convinced me that in no valuable attribute was
he anywise superior to his sister. The consciousness of
having been deceived and wronged by him set me above
both his anger and his flattery. I was hastening to his
house to give vent to my feelings, when a little considera-
tion turned my steps another way. I recollected that I
should probably meet his companion, and that was an
encounter which I had hitherto carefully avoided. I
went, according to my first design, to my father's ; I was
in hopes of meeting Frank there some time in the day,
or of being visited by him at Mrs. Fielder's.

My soul was in a tumult that unfitted me for conversa-
tion. I felt hourly-increasing remorse at having con-
cealed my proceedings from my mother. I imagined
that, had I treated her from the first with the confidence
due to her, I should have avoided all my present diffi-
culties. Now the obstacles to confidence appeared in-
surmountable, and my only consolation was, that by
inflexible resolution I might shun any new cause for
humiliation and regret.

I had purposed to spend the greater part of the day at
my father's, chiefly in the hope of a meeting with my
brother ; but, after dinner, my mother sent for me home.

44 JANE TALBOT.

Something, methought, very extraordinary, must liave
happened, as my mother was well : as, according to the
messenger's account, she had just parted with a gentle-
man who seemed to have visited her on private business,
my heart misgave me.

As soon as I got home, my mother took me into her
chamber, and told me, after an affecting preface, that a

gentleman in ofEce at Bank had called on her and

informed her that checks of my signing to a very large
amount had lately been offered, and that the last made
its appearance to-day, and was presented by a man with
whom it was highly disreputable for one in my condition
to be thought to have any sort of intercourse.

You may suppose that, after this introduction, I made
haste to explain every particular. My mother was sur-
prised and grieved. She rebuked me, with some asperity,
for my reserves. Had I acquainted her with my brother's
demands, she could have apprized me of all that I had
since discovered. My brother, she asserted, was involved
beyond any one's power to extricate him, and his temper,
his credulity, were such that he was forever doomed to
poverty.

I had scarcely parted with my mother on this occasion,
to whom I had promised to refer every future application,
when my brother made his appearance. I was prepared
to overwhelm him with upbraidings for his past conduct,
but found my tongue tied in his presence. I could not
bear to inflict so much shame and mortification; and
besides, the past being irrevocable, it would only aggra-
vate the disappointment which I was determined every
future application should meet with. After some vague
apology for non-payment, he applied for a new loan. He
had borrowed, he said, of a deserving man, a small sum,
which he was now unable to repay. The poor fellow was
in narrow circumstances ; was saddled with a numerous
family ; had been prevailed upon to lend, after extreine
urgency on my brother's part; was now driven to the
utmost need, and by a prompt repayment would probably
be saved from ruin. A minute and plausible account of
the way in which the debt originated, and his inability
to repay it shown to have proceeded from no fault of his.

JANE TALBOT. 45

I repeatedly endeavoured to break off tlie conversation,
by abruptly leaving the room ; but he detained me by im-
portunity, by holding my hand, by standing against the
door.

How irresistible is supplication ! The glossings and
plausibilities of eloquence are inexhaustible. I found
my courage wavering. After a few inefifectual struggles,
I ceased to contend. He saw that little remained to
complete his conquest; and, to effect that little, by con-
vincing me that his tale was true, he stepped out a moment,
to bring in his creditor, whose anxiety had caused him
to accompany Frank to the door.

This momentary respite gave me time to reflect. I
ran through the door, now no longer guarded ; up-stairs
I flew into my mother's chamber, and told her from what
kind of persecution I had escaped.

While I was speaking, some one knocked at the door.
It was a servant, despatched by my brother to summon
me back. My mother went in my stead. I was left,
for some minutes, alone.

So persuasive had been my brother's rhetoric, that I
began to regret my flight.

I felt something like compunction at having deprived
him of an opportunity to prove his assertions. Every
gentle look and insinuating accent reappeared to my
memory, and I more than half repented my inflexibility.

While buried in these thoughts, my mother returned.
She told me that my brother was gone, after repeatedly
requesting an interview with me, and refusing to explain
his business to any other person.

"Was there anybody with him, madam?"

"Yes. One Clarges, — a jeweller, — an ill-looking,
suspicious person."

"Do you know any thing of this Clarges?"

"Nothing but what I am sorry to know. He is a dis-
solute fellow, who has broken the hearts of two wives,
and thrown his children for maintenance on their maternal
relations. 'Tis the same who carried your last check to
the bank."

I just then faintly recollected the name of Clarges, as
having occurred in the conversation at the watchmaker's,

46 JANE TALBOT.

and as being the name of him who had produced the
paper. This, then, was the person who was to have been
introduced to me as the friend in need, the meritorious
father of a numerous family, whom the payment of a just
debt was to relieve from imminent ruin ! How loathsome,
how detestable, how insecure, are fraud and treachery !
Had he been confronted with me, no doubt he would have
recognised the person whom he stared at at the watch-
maker's.

Next morning I received a note, dated on the pre-
ceding evening. These were the terms of it : —

"I am sorry to say, Jane, that the ruin of a father
and brother may justly be laid at your door. Not to
save them, when the means were in your power, and
when entreated to use the means, makes you the author
of their ruin. The crisis has come. Had you shown a
little mercy, the crisis might have terminated favourably.
As it is, we are undone. You do not deserve to know
the place of my retreat. Your unsisterly heart will
prompt you to intercept rather than to aid or connive at
my flight. Fly I must; whither, it is pretty certain,
will never come to your knowledge. Farewell."

My brother's disappearance, the immediate ruin of my
father, whose whole fortune was absorbed by debts con-
tracted in his name, and for the most part without his
knowledge, the sudden afiluence of the adventurer who
had suggested his projects to my brother, were the imme-
diate consequences of this event. To a man of my father's
habits and views, no calamity can be conceived greater
than this. Never did I witness a more sincere grief, a
more thorough despair. Every thing he once possessed
was taken away from him and sold. My mother, how-
ever, prevented all the most opprobrious effects of poverty,
and all in my power to alleviate his solitude, and console
him in his distress, was done.

Would you have thought, after this simple relation,
that there was any room for malice and detraction to
build up their inventions ?

My brother was enraged that I refused to comply with
any of his demands; not grateful for the instances in
which I did comply. Clarges resented the disappoint-

JANE TALBOT. 47

ment of his scheme as much as if honour and integrity-
had given him a title to success.

How many times has the story heen told, and with
what variety of exaggeration, that the sister refused to
lend her brother money, when she had plenty at command,
and when a seasonable loan would have prevented the
ruin of her family, while, at the same time, she had such
an appetite for toys and baubles, that ere yet she was
eighteen years old she ran in debt to Clarges the jeweller
for upwards of five hundred dollars'-worth !

You are the only person to whom I have thought my-
self bound to tell the whole truth. I do not think my
reluctance to draw the foUies of my brother from oblivion
a culpable one. I am willing to rely, for my justification
from malicious charges, on the general tenor of my actions,
and am scarcely averse to buy my brother's reputation
at the cost of my own. The censure of the undistinguishing
and undistinguished multitude gives me little uneasiness.
Indeed, the disapprobation of those who have no particular
connection with us is a very faint, dubious, and momentary
feeling. We are thought of, now and then, by chance, and
immediately forgotten. Their happiness is unaffected by
the sentence casually pronounced on us, and we suffer no-
thing, since it scarcely reaches our ears, and the interval
between the judge and the culprit hinders it from having
any influence on their actions. Not so when the censure
reaches those who love us. The charge engrosses their
attention, influences their happiness, and regulates their
deportment towards us. My self-regard, and my regard
for you, equally lead me to vindicate myself to you from
any charge, however chimerical or obsolete it may be.

My brother went to France. He seemed disposed to
forget that he ever had kindred or country ; never informed
us of his situation and views. All our tidings of him came
to us indirectly. In this way we heard that he procured
a commission in the republican troops, had made some
fortunate campaigns, and had enriched himself by lucky
speculations in the forfeited estates.

My mother was informed, by some one lately returned
from Paris, that Frank had attained possession of the
whole property of an emigrant Compte de Puysegur, who

48 JANE TALBOT.

was far from being the poorest of the ancient noMes ;
that he lived, with princely luxury, in the count's hotel ;
that he had married, according to the new mode, the
compte's sister, and was probably, for the remainder of his
life, a Frenchman. He is attentive to his countrymen,
and this reporter partook of several entertainments at his
house.

Methinks the memory of past incidents must sometimes
intrude upon his thoughts. Can he have utterly for-
gotten the father whom he reduced to indigence, whom
he sent to a premature grave ? Amidst his present opu-
lence, one would think it would occur to him to inquire
into the effects of his misconduct, not only to his own
family, but on others.

What a strange diversity there is among human cha-
racters ! Frank is, I question not, gay, volatile, impe-
tuous as ever. The jovial carousal and the sound sleep
are never molested, I dare say, by the remembrance of
the incidents I have related to you.

Methinks, had I the same heavy charges to make against
my conscience, I should find no refuge but death from the
goadings of remorse. To have abandoned a father to the
jail or the hospital, or to the charity of strangers, — a father
too who had yielded him an affection and a trust without
limits ; to have wronged a sister out of the little property on
which she relied for support to her unprotected youth or
helpless age, — a sister who was virtually an orphan, who
had no natural claim upon her present patroness, but might
be dismissed penniless from the house that sheltered her,
without exposing the self-constituted mother to any re-
proach.

And has not this event taken place already ? What
can I expect but that, at lea»t, it will take place as soon
as she hears of my resolution with regard to thee ? She
ought to know it immediately. I myself ought to tell
it, and this was one of the tasks which I designed to per-
form in your absence: yet, alas! I know not how to set
about it.

My fingers are for once thoroughly weary. I must
lay down the pen. But first ; why don't I hear from you ?
Every day since Sunday, when you left me, have I de-

JANE TALBOT. 49

spatched a.i enormous packet, and have not received a
sentence in answer. 'Tis not well done, my friend, to
forget and neglect me thus. You gave me some reason,
indeed, to expect no very sudden tidings from you ; but
there is inexpiable treason in the silence of four long days.
If you do not oflFer substantial excuses for this delay, woe
be to thee !

Take this letter, and expect not another syllable from
my pen till I hear from you.

LETTER VII.

To Henry Colden.

Thursday Night.

What a little thing subverts my peace, — dissipates my
resolutions ! Am I not an honest, foolish creature, Hal ?
I uncover this wayward heart to thy view as promptly
as if the disclosure had no tendency to impair thy esteem
and forfeit thy love ; that is, to devote me to death, — to
ruin me beyond redemption.

And yet, if the unveiling of my follies should have this
effect, I think I should despise thee for stupidity and
hate thee for ingratitude ; for whence proceed my irre-
solution, my vicissitudes of purpose, but from my love ?
and that man's heart must be made of strange stuff that
can abhor or contemn a woman for loving him too much.
Of such stuff the heart of my friend, thank Heaven, is not
made. Though I love him far — far too much, he will not
trample on or scoff at me.

But how my pen rambles ! — No wonder ; for my intel-
lects are in a strange confusion. There is an acute pain
just here. Give me your hand and let me put it on the
very spot. Alas ! there is no dear hand within my reach.
I remember feeling just such a pain but once before. Then
you chanced to be seated by my side. I put your hand
to the spot, and, strange to tell, a moment after I looked
for the pain and 'twas gone, — utterly vanished ! Cannot
I imagine so strongly as to experience that relief which
4

50 JANE TALBOT.

your hand pressed to my forehead would give ? Let me
lay down the pen and try.

Ah ! my friend ! when present, thou'rt an excellent
physician ; but as thy presence is my cure, so thy absence
is my only, my fatal malady.

My desk is, of late, always open ; my paper spread ; my
pen moist. I must talk to you, though you give me no
answer, though I have nothing but gloomy forebodings
to communicate, or mournful images to call up. I must
talk to you, even when you cannot hear ; when invisible ;
when distant many a mile. It is some relief even to cor-
poral agonies. Even the pain which I just now com-
plained of is lessened since I took up the pen. Oh, Hal !
Hal ! if you ever prove ungrateful or a traitor to me,
and there be a state retributive hereafter, terrible will be
thy punishment.

But why do I talk to thee thus wildly ? Why deal I in
such rueful prognostics ? I want to tell you why, for I
have a reason for my present alarms : they all spring from
one source, — r^ doubt8of__thy fidglity.^ Yea^^Hanr-y,
since your arrival ^\ ^^^\r<ym^±M^Sn\,'Aiu\:if^^
visitantof Miss iSeck er,.aad have ke pt a p rofound sile sce
tg yards me.

Nothing can be weaker and more silly than these dis-
quiets. Cannot my friend visit a deserving woman a few
times but my terrors must impertinently intrude ? — Can-
not he forget the pen, and fail to write to me, for half a
week together, but my rash resentments must conjure up
the phantoms of ingratitude and perfidy ?

Pity the weakness of a fond heart, Henry, and let me
hear from you, and be your precious and long-withheld
letter my relief from every disquiet. I believe, and do
not believe, what I have heard, and what I have heard
teems with a thousand mischiefs, or is fair and innocent,
according to my reigning temper. — Adieu ; but let me
hear from you immediately.

JANE TALBOT. 5 I

LETTER VIII.
To Jane Talbot.

Wilmington, Saturday, October 9.

I THOUGHT I had convinced my friend that a letter
from me ought not to be expected earlier than Monday.
I left her to gratify no fickle humour, nor because my
chief pleasure lay anywhere but in her company. She
knew of my design to make some stay at this place, and
that the business that occasioned my stay would leave
me no leisure to write.

Is it possible that my visits to Miss Seeker have given
you any concern ? Why must the source of your anxiety
be always so mortifying and opprobrious to me ? That
the absence of a few days, and the company of another
woman, should be thought to change my sentiments, and
make me secretly recant those vows which I offered to
you, is an imputation on my common sense which — I sup-
pose I deserve. You judge of me from what you know
of me. How can you do otherwise ? If my past conduct
naturally creates such suspicions, who am I to blame but
myself? Reformation should precede respect ; and how
should I gain confidence in my integrity but as the fruit
of perseverance in well-doing ?

Alas ! how much has he lost who has forfeited his own
esteem !

As to Miss Seeker, your ignorance of her, and, I may
add, of yourself, has given her the preference. You
think her your superior, no doubt, in every estimable and
attractive quality, and therefore suspect her influence on
a being so sensual and volatile as poor Hal. Were she
really more lovely, the faithless and giddy wretch might
possibly forget you ; but Miss Seeker is a woman whose
mind and person are not only inferior to yours, but wholly
unfitted to inspire love. If it were possible to smile in my
present mood, I think I should indulge one smile at the
thought of falUng in love with a woman who has scarcely
had education enough to enable her to write her name,

52 JANE TALBOT.

who has been confined to her bed about eighteen months
by a rheumatism contracted by too assiduous application
to the ivash-tub, and who often boasts that she was born,
not above forty-five years ago, in an upper story of the
mansion at Mount Vernon.

You do not tell me who it was that betrayed me to you.
I suspect, however, it was Miss Jessup. She was passing
through this town, in her uncle's carriage, on Wednes-
day, on her way home. Seeing me come out of the poor
woman's lodgings, she stopped the coach, prated for five
minutes, and left me with ironical menaces of telling
you of my frequent visits to a single lady, of whom it
appeared that she had some knowledge. Thus you see
that your disquiets have had no foundation but in the
sportive malice of your talkative neighbour.

Hannah Seeker chanced to be talked of at Mr. Hen-
shaw's as a poor creature, who was sick and destitute,
and lay, almost deserted, in a neighbouring hovel. She
existed on charity, which was the more scanty and re-
luctant as she bore but an indifferent character either
for honesty or gratitude.

The name, when first mentioned, struck my ear as
something that had once been familiar, and, in my soli-
tary evening walk, I stopped at her cottage. The sight
of her, though withered by age and disease, called her
fully to mind. Three years ago, she lived in the city,
and had been very serviceable to me in the way of her
calling. I had dismissed her, however, after receiving
several proofs that a pair of silk stockings and a muslin
cravat offered too mighty a temptation for her virtue.
You know I have but little money to spare from my own
necessities, and all the service I could render her was
to be her petitioner and advocate with some opulent
families in this place. But enough — and too much — of
Hannah Seeker.

Need I say that I have read your narrative, and that
I fully acquit you of the guilt laid to your charge ? That
was done, indeed, before I heard your defence, and I
was anxious to hear your story, merely because all that
relates to you is in the highest degree interesting to me.

This letter, notwithstanding my engagements, should

JANE TALBOT. 53

be longer, if I were not in danger, by writing on, of
losing the post. So, dearest love, farewell, and tell me
in your next (which I shall expect on Tuesday) that
every pain has vanished from your head and from your
heart. You may as well delay writing to your mother
till I return. I hope it will be permitted me to do so
very shortly. Again, my only friend, farewell.

I-Ienry Golden.

LETTER IX.
To Henry Colden.

Philadelphia, Monday, October 11.

I AM ashamed of myself, Henry. What an incon-
sistent creature am I ! I have just placed this dear letter
of yours next my heart. The sensation it aifords, at this
moment, is delicious; almost as much so as I once ex-
perienced from a certain somebody's hand placed on the
same spot. But that somebody's hand was never (if I
recollect aright) so highly honoured as this paper. Have
I not told you that your letter is deposited next my heart?

And with all these proofs of the pleasure your letter
aifords me, could you guess at the cause of those tears
which, even now, have not ceased flowing ? Your letter
has so little tenderness — ^is so very cold. But let me not
be ungrateful for the preference you grant me, merely
because it is not so enthusiastic and unlimited as my own.

I suppose, if I had not extorted from you some ac-
count of this poor woman, I should never have heard a
syllable of your meeting with her. It is surely possible
for people to be their own calumniators, to place their
own actions in the worst light, to exaggerate their faults
and conceal their virtues. If the fictions and artifices
of vanity be detestable, the concealment of our good
actions is surely not without guilt. The conviction of
*our guilt is painful to those that love us : wantonly and
needlessly to give this pain is very perverse and unjusti-
fiable. If a contrary deportment argue vanity, self-
detraction seenjs to be the ofispring of pride.

54 JANE TALBOT.

Thou art tlie strangest of men, Henry. Thy whole
conduct with regard to me has heen a tissue of self-
upbraidings. You have disclosed not only a thousand
misdeeds (as you have thought them) which could not
possibly have come to my knowledge by any other means,
but have laboured to ascribe even your commendable
actions to evil or ambiguous motives. Motives are im-
penetrable, and a thousa.nd cases have occurred in which
every rational observer would have supposed you to be
influenced by the best motives, but where, if credit be
due to your own representations, your motives were far
from being laudable.

Vfhy is my esteem rather heightened than depressed
by this deportment? In truth, there is no crime which
remorse will not expiate, and no more shining virtue in
the whole catalogue than sincerity. Besides, your own
account of yourself, with all the exaggerations of hu-
mility, proved you, on the whole, and with the allowances
necessarily made by every candid person, to be a very
excellent man.

Your deportment to me ought chiefly to govern my
opinion of you ; and have you not been uniformly gene-
rous, sincere, and upright ? — not quite passionate enough,
perhaps ; no blind and precipitate enthusiast. Love has
not banished discretion, or blindfolded your sagacity;
and, as I should forgive a thousand errors on the score
of love, I cannot fervently applaud that wisdom which
tramples upon love. Thou hast a thousand excellent
qualities, Henry ; that is certain : yet a little more im-
petuosity and fervour in thy tenderness would compen-
sate for the want of the whole thousand. There is a
frank confession for thee ! I am confounded at my own
temerity in making it. Will it not injure me in thy
esteem ? and, of all evils which it is possible for me to
suffer, the loss of iliat esteem would soonest drive me to
desperation.

The world has been liberal of its censure, but surely
a thorough knowledge of my conduct could not condemn
me. When-i7ry4ather and mother united their entreaties
to those of\Talbot^'my heart had never known a prefer-
ence. The man of their choice was perfectly indifierent

JANE TALBOT. 55

to me, but every individual of his sex was regarded Tvith
no less indifference. I did not conceal from him the
state of my feelings, but was always perfectly ingenuous
and explicit. Talbot acted like every man in love. He
was eager to secure me on these terms, and fondly trusted
to his tenderness and perseverance to gain those affec-
tions which I truly acknowledged to be free. He would
not leave me for his European voyage till he had extorted
a solemn promise.

During his absence I met you. The nature of those
throbs, which a glance of your very shadow was sure
to produce, even previous to the exchange of a single
word between us, was entirely unknown to me. I had
no experience to guide me. The effects of that inter-
course which I took such pains to procure could not be
foreseen. My heart was too pure to admit even such a
guest as apprehension, and the only information I pos-
sessed respecting you impressed me with the notion that
your heart already belonged to another.

I sought nothing but your society and your esteem.
If the fetters of my promise to Talbot became irksome
after my knowledge of you, I was unconscious of the
true cause. This promise never for a moment lost its
obligation with me. I deemed myself as much the wife
of Talbot as if I had stood with him at the altar.

At the prospect of his return, my melancholy was
excruciating, but the cause was unknown to me. I had
nothing to wish, with regard to you, but to see you occa-
sionally, to hear your voice, and to be told that you were
happy. It never occurred to me that Talbot's return
would occasion any difference in this respect. Conscious
of nothing but rectitude in my regard for you, always
frank and ingenuous in disclosing my feelings, I ima-
gined that Talbot would adopt you as warmly for his
friend as I had done.

I must grant that I erred in this particular, but my
error sprung from ignorance unavoidable. I judged of
others by my own heart, and very sillily imagined that
Talbot would continue to be satisfied with that cold and
friendly regard for which only my vows made me an-
swerable. Zet my husband^§-4e4iousies and discraients

S6 JANE TALBOT.

were not unreasonable. He loved me with passion;
and, if that sentiment can endure to be unrequited, it
will never tolerate the preference of another, even if
that preference be less than love.

In compliance with my husband's wishes — Ah ! mj
friend ! why cannot I say that I did comply with them ?
what a fatal act is that of plighting hands when the
heart is estranged ! Never, never let the placable and
compassionate spirit be seduced into a union to which
the aifections are averse. Let it not confide in the after-
birth of love. Such a union is the direst cruelty even
to the object who is intended to be benefited.

I have not yet thoroughly forgiven you for deserting
me. My heart swells with anguish at the thought of
your setting more lightly by my resentment than by that
of another ; of your willingness to purchase any one's
happiness at the cost of mine. You are too wise, too
dispassionate, by far. Don't despise me for this accusa-
tion, Henry; you know my unbiassed judgment has
always been with you. Repeated proofs have convinced
me that my dignity and happiness are safer in your
keeping than in my own.

You guess right, my friend. Miss Jessup told me of
your visits to this poor sick woman. JCbel^ is Something
mysterious in the character of thi^^olly. Jessifp. She
is particularly solicitous about every-thing--which relates
to you. It has occurred to me, since reading your letter,
that she is not entirely without design in her prattle.
Something more, methinks, than the mere tattling, gos-
siping, inquisitive propensity in the way in which she in-
troduces you into conversation.

She had not alighted ten minutes before she ran into
my apartment, with a face full of intelligence. The truth
respecting the washwoman was very artfully disguised,
and yet so managed as to allow her to elude the impu-
tation of direct falsehood. She will, no doubt, in this
as in former cases, cover up all under the appearance of
a good-natured jest; yet, if she be in jest, there is more
of malice, I suspect, than of good nature in her merriment.

Make haste back, my dear Hal. I cannot bear to
keep my mother in ignorance of our resolutions, and I

JANE TALBOT. 57

am utterly at a loss in -what manner to communicate them
so as to awaken the least reluctance. Oh, what would
be wanting to my felicity if my mother could be won
over to my side ? And is so inestimable a good utterly
hopeless ? Come, my friend, and dictate such a letter as
may subdue those prejudices which, while they continue
to exist, will permit me to choose only among deplorable
evils. Jane Talbot.

LETTER X.
To Jane Talbot.

New York, October 13.

I HAVE just heard something which has made me very
uneasy. I am afraid of seeming to you impertinent.
You have declared your resolution to persist in conduct
which my judgment disapproved. I have argued with
you and admonished you, hitherto, in vain, and you have
(tacitly indeed) rejected my interference ; yet I cannot
forbear oifering you my counsel once more.

To say truth, it is not so much with a view to change
your resolution, that I now write, as to be informed what
your resolution is. I have heard what I cannot believe;
yet, considering your former conduct, I have misgivings
that I cannot subdue. Strangely as you have acted of
late, I am willing to think you incapable of what is laid
to your charge. In few words, Jane, they tell me that
Tou meau to be act ually married to Colden.
'^ You know wJiat 1 tlimk of that young man. You know
my objections to the conduct you thought proper to pursue
ift-i:daJifi«''tTr-€k)lden_,>B.,29iH:_i^ You

will judge, then, with what emotions such intelligence was
received.

Indiscreet as you have been, there are, I hope, bounds
which your education will not permit you to pass. Some
regard, I hope, you will have for your own reputation.
If your conscience object not to this proceeding, the dread
of infamy, at least, will check your career.

You may think that I speak harshly, and that I ought

58 JANE TALBOT.

to wait, at least, till I knew your resolution, before I
spoke of it in such terms ; but, if this report be ground-
less, my censures cannot affect you. If it be true, they/
may serve, I hope, to deter you from persisting in your I
scheme. ^

What more can I say ? You are my nearest relation ;
not my daughter, it is true; but, since I have not any
other kindred, you are more than a daughter to me. That
love, which a numerous family or kindred would divide
among themselves, is all collected and centred in you.
The ties between us have long ceased to be artificial ones,
and I feel, in all respects, as if you actually owed your
being to me.

You have hitherto consulted my pleasure but little. I
have all the rights, in regard to you, of a mother, but
these have been hitherto despised or unacknowledged.
I once regarded you as the natural successor to my pro-
perty ; and, though your conduct has forfeited these claims,
I now tell you (and you know that my word is sacred)
that all I have shall be yours, on condition that Golden is
dismissed.

More than this I will do. Every assurance possible I
will give, that all shall be yours at my death, and all I
have I will share with you equally while I live. Only
give me your word that, as soon as the transfer is made.
Golden shall be thought of and conversed with, either
personally or by letter, no more. I want only your pro-
mise ; on that I will absolutely rely.

Mere lucre ought not, perhaps, to influence you in such
a case; and if you comply through regard to my peace
or your own reputation, I shall certainly esteem you
more highly than if you are determined by the present
offer; yet such is my aversion to this alliance, that the
hour in which I hear of your consent to the conditions
which I now propose to you will be esteemed one of the
happiest of my life.

Think of it, my dear Jane, my friend, my child ; think
of it. Take time to reflect, and let me have a deliberate
answer, such as will remove the fears that at present
afilict, beyond my power of expression, your

H. Fielder.

JANE TALBOT. 59

LETTER XL
To Mrs. Fielder.

Philadelphia, Obtoher 15.

I HAVE several times taken up the pen, but my distress
has compelled me to lay it down again. Heaven is my
witness that the happiness of my revered mamma is dearer
to me than my own ; no struggle was ever greater be-
tween my duty to you and the claims of another.

Will you not permit me to explain my conduct? will
you not acquaint me with the reasons of your aversion
to my friend ? — let me call him by that name. Such, in-
deed, has he been to me, — the friend of my understand-
ing and my virtue. My soul's friend ; since, to suffer,
without guilt, in this world, entitles us to peace in an-
other, and since to him I owe that I have not been a
guilty as well as an unfortunate creature.

AVhatever conduct I pursue with regard to him, I must
always consider him in this light ; at least, till your proofs
against him are heard. Let me hear them, I beseech
you. Have compassion on the anguish of your poor girl,
and reconcile, if possible, my duty to your inclination,
by stating what you know to his disadvantage. You
must have causes for your enmity, which you hide from
me. Indeed, you tell me that you have ; you say that
if I knew them they would determine me. Let then
every motive be set aside through regard to my happiness,
and disclose to me this secret.

While I am ignorant of these charges, while all that
I know of Golden tends to endear his happiness to me,
and while his happiness depends upon my acceptance of
his vows, can I, ought I, to reject him ?

Place yourself in my situation. You once loved and
was once beloved. I am, indeed, your child. I glory
in the name which you have had the goodness to bestow
upon me. Think and feel for your child, in her present
unhappy circumstances ; in which she does not balance
between happiness and misery, — that alternative, alas!
is not permitted, — but is anxious to discover which path

60 JANE TALBOT.

has fewest thorns, and in wliicli her duty will allow her
to walk.

How greatly do you humble me, and how strongly
evince your aversion to Golden, by offering, as the price
of his rejection, half your property! How low am I
fallen in your esteem, since you think it possible for such
a bribe to prevail ! and what calamities must this alliance
seem to threa,ten, since the base selfishness of accepting
this offer is better, in your eyes, than my marriage !

Sure I never was unhappy till now. Pity me, my
mother. Condescend to write to me again, and, by dis-
closing all your objections to Colden, reconcile, I earnestly
entreat you, my duty to your inclination.

Jane Talbot.

LETTER XII.
To Mrs. Fielder.

Philadelphia, October 17.

YoD will not write to me. Your messenger assures me
that you have cast me from your thoughts forever ; you
will speak to me and see me no more.

That must not be. I am preparing, inclement as the
season is, to pay you a visit. Unless you shut your door
against me I will see you. You will not turn me out of
doors, I hope.

I will see you and compel you to answer me, and to
tell me why you will not admit my friend to your good
opinion. J. Talbot.

LETTER XIIL

To Jane Talbot.

Now York, October 19.
You need not come to see me, Jane. I will not see you.
Lay me not under the cruel necessity of shutting my door
against you, for that must be the consequence of your
attempt.

JANE TALBOT. 6 1

After reading your letter, and seeing full proof of your
infatuation, I resolved to throw away my care no longer
upon you ; to think no more of you ; to act just as if you
never had existence ; whenever it was possible, to shun
you ; when I met you, by chance, or perforce, to treat you
merely as a stranger. I write this letter to acquaint you
with my resolution. Tour future letters cannot change
it, for they shall all be returned to you unopened.

I know you better than to trust to the appearance of
half-yielding reluctance whjch your letter contains. Thus
it has always been, and as often as this duteous strain
flattered me with hopes of winning you to reason, have
I been deceived and disappointed.

I trust to your discernment, your seeming humility, no
longer. No child are you of mine. You have, hence-
forth, no part in my blood; and may I very soon forget
that so lost and betrayed a wretch ever belonged to it !

I charge you, write not to me again. H. F.

LETTER XIV.
To Mrs. Fielder.

Philadelpliia, October 24.

Impossible ! A^e jo u not_ mx_mflthee-? — more to me
than any mother ? Did I not receive your protection and
instruction in my infancy and my childhood ? When left
an orphan by my own mother, your bosom was open to
receive me. There was the helpless babe cherished, and
there was it taught all that virtue which it has since en-
deavoured to preserve unimpaired in every trial.

You must not cast me off. You must not hate me.
You must not call me ungrateful and a wretch. Not to
have merited these names is all that enables me to endure
your displeasure. As long as that belief consoles me, my
heart will not break.

Yet that, even that, will not much avail me. The dis-
tress that I now feel, that I have felt ever since the re-
ceipt of your letter, cannot be increased.

62 JANE TALBOT.

You forbid me to write to you ; but I cannot forbear
as long as there is hope of extorting from you the cause
of your aversion to my friend. I solicit not this dis-
closure with a view or even in the hope of repelling your
objections. I want, I had almost said, I want to share
your antipathies. I want only to be justified in obeying
you. When known, they will, perhaps, be found suffi-
cient. I conjure you once more, tell me your objections
to this marriage.

As well as I can, I have examined myself. Passion
may influence me, but I am unconscious of its influence.
I think I act with no exclusive regard to my own plea-
sure, but as it flows from and is dependent on the happi-
ness of others.

If I am mistaken in my notions of duty, God forbid
that I should shut my ears against good counsel. Instead
of loathing or shunning it, I am anxious to hear it. I
know my own short-sighted folly, my slight experience.
I know how apt I am to go astray, how often my own
heart deceives me ; and hence I always am in search of
better knowledge ; hence I listen to admonition, not only
with docility, but gratitude. My inclination ought, per-
haps, to be absolutely neuter ; but, if I know myself, it is
with reluctance that I withhold my assent from the ex-
postulator. I am delighted to receive conviction from the
arguments of those that love me.

In this case, I am prepared to hear and weigh, and be
convinced by, any thing you think proper to urge.

I ask not pardon for my faults, nor compassion on my
frailty. That I love Golden I will not deny, but I love
his worth ; his merits, real or imaginary, enrapture my
soul. Ideal his virtues may be, but to me they are real,
and the moment they cease to be so, that the illusion dis-
appears, I cease to love him, or, at least, I will do all
that is in my power to do. I will forbear all intercourse
or correspondence with him, — for his as well as my own
sake.

Tell me then, my mother, what you know of him. What
heinous oflence has he committed, that makes him un-
worthy of my regard?

You have raised, without knowing it perhaps, or de-

JANE TALBOT. 63

signing to effect it in this way, a bar to this detested alli-
ance. While you declare that Golden has been guilty of
base actions, it is impossible to grant him my esteem as
fully as a husband should claim. Till I know what the
actions are which you impute to him, I never will bind
myself to him by indissoluble bands.

I have told him this, and he joins with me to entreat
you to communicate your charges to me. He believes
that you are misled by some misapprehension, — some
slander. He is conscious that many of his actions have
been, in some respects, ambiguous, capable of being mis-
taken by careless, or distant, or prejudiced observers. He
believes that you have been betrayed into some fatal error
in relation to one action of his life.

If this be so, he wishes only to be told his fault, and
will sparcf no time and no pains to remove your mistake,
if you should appear to be mistaken.

How easily, my good mamma, may the most discern-
ing and impartial be misled ! The ignorant and envious
have no choice between truth and error. Their tale
must want something to complete it, or must possess more
than the truth demands. Something you have heard of
my friend injurious to his good name, and you condemn
him unheard.

Yet this displeases me not. I am not anxious for his
justification, but only to know so much as will authorize
me to conform to your wishes.

You warn me against this marriage for my own sake.
You think it will be disastrous to me. — The reasons of
this apprehension would, you think, appear just in my
eyes should they be disclosed, yet you will not disclose
them. Without disclosure I cannot — as a rational crea-
ture, I cannot — change my resolution. If then I marry
and the evil come that is threatened, whom have I to
blame ? at whose door must my misfortunes be laid if not
at hers who had it in her power to prevent the evil and
would not ?

Your treatment of me can proceed only from your love ;
and yet all the fruits of the direst enmity may grow out
of it. By untimely concealments may my peace be for-
feited forever. Judge then between your obligations to

64 JANE TALBOT.

me, and those of secrecy, into wWch you seem to have
entered with another.

My happiness, my future conduct, are in your hand.
Mould them, govern them, as you think proper. I have
pointed out the means, and once more conjure you, by
the love which you once bore, which you still bear, to me,
to use thern^ Jane Talbot.

LETTER XV.

To Jane Talbot.

New York, October 27.

Insolent creature that thou art, Jane, and cunning as
insolent ! To elude my just determination by such an
artifice ! 'I|o_couiiterfeit a strange hand in the direction
of-t-by letter, that! migTrTtEerebY be inSucecTtb opeii^t !

Thou wilt noFrest^~rsee, till tEouTiast tdfnTtrom'^my
heart every root, every fibre of my once-cherished ten-
derness ; till thou hast laid my head low in the grave.
To number the tears and the pangs which thy depravity

has already cost me but thy last act is destined to

surpass all former ones.

Thy perseverance in wickedness, thy inflexible impos-
ture, amazes me beyond all utterance. Thy effrontery
in boasting of thy innocence, in calling this wretch thy
friend, thy souVs friend, the means of securing the fa-
vour of a pure and all-seeing Judge, exceeds all that I
supposed possible in human nature. And that thou, Jane,
the darling of my heart, and the object of all my care and
my pride, should be this profligate, this obdurate creature !

When very young, you were ill of a fever. The phy-
sician gave up, for some hours, all hope of your life. I
shall never forget the grief which his gloomy silence
gave me. All that I held dear in the world, I then
thought, I would cheerfully surrender to save your life.

Poor, short-sighted wretch that I was ! That event
which, had it then happened, would perhaps have be-
reaved me of reason, would have saved me from a por-
tion far more bitter. I should have never lived to wit-

JANE TALBOT. 65

nes3 the depravity of one whom my whole life had been
employed in training to virtue.

Having opened your letter, and somewhat debated
with myself, I consented to read. I will do more than
read; I will answer it minutely. I will unfold that
secret by which, you truly think, my aversion to your
present scheme has been chiefly caused.

I have hitherto been silent through compassion to you ;
through the hope that all might yet be well ; that you
might be influenced by my persuasions to forbear an
action that will insure forever your ruin. I now perceive
the folly of this compassion and these hopes. I need
not be assiduous to spare you the shame and mortifica-
tion of hearing the truth. Shame is as much a stranger
to your heart as remorse. Say what I will, disclose
what I will, your conduct will be just the same. A show
of much reluctance and humility will, no doubt, be made,
and the tongue will be busy in imploring favour which
the heart disdains.

In the foresight of this, I was going to forbid your
writing; but you care not for my forbidding. As long
as you think it possible to reconcile me to your views
and make me a partaker in your infamy, you will harass
me with importunity, with feigned penitence and prepos-
terous arguments. But one thing at least is in my power.
I can shun you, and I can throw your unopened letters
into the fire ; and that, believe me, Jane, I shall do.

But I am wasting time. My indignation carries me
away from my purpose. Let me return to it, and, hav-
ing told you all my mind, let me dismiss the hateful
subject forever.

I kn ew the motives that induced you to marry Lewis
Talljotr I'hey were good ones. Your compliance witF"
mine and your father's wishes in that respect showed
that force of understanding which I always ascribed to
you. Your previous reluctance, your scruples, were
indeed unworthy of you, but you conquered them, and
that was better ; perhaps it evinced more magnanimity
than never to have had them.

''* You were happy, I long thought, in your union with
a man of probity and good sense. You may be sure I
— ^ 5

66 JANE TALBOT.

thought of you often, but only with pleasure. Certain
indications I early saw in . you of a sensibility that re-
quired strict government; an inattention to any thing
but feeling ; a proneness to romantic friendship, and a
pining after good not consistent with our nature. I
imagined that I had kept at a distance all such books
and companions as tend to produce this fantastic charac-
ter; and whence you imbibed this perverse spirit, at
so early an age, is, to me, inconceivable. It cost me
many a gloomy foreboding.

My disquiets increased as you grew up, and that age
arrived when the heart comes to be entangled with what
is called love. I was anxious to find for you a man of
merit, to whose keeping your happiness might safely be
intrusted. Talbot was such a one, but the wayward heart
refused to love him. He was not all your fancy had
conceived of excellent and lovely. He was a mere man,
with the tastes and habits suitable and common to his
education and age. He was addicted to industry, was
regular and frugal in his manner and economy. He had
nothing of that specious and glossy texture which capti-
vates inexperience and youth, and serves as a substitute
for every other virtue. While others talked about their
duty, he was contented with performing it; and he was
satisfied with ignorance of theories as long as his prac-
tice was faultless.

He was just such a one as I wished for the darling of
my heart; but you thought not so. You did not object
to his age, thou g h almost double your'^jwn; to his per-~
son or aspect, thougti they were by no mSTmsTTorthy of
his mind; to his profession or condition; but your heart
sighed after one who could divide with you your sympa-
thies; who saw every thing just as you saw it; who
could emulate your eijthttsiasm, and echo back every
exclamation which cliance shjould dictate to you.

You even pleadeJ rehgion as one of your objections.
Talbot, it seems, hafftrothing that deserved to be called
religion. He had never reasoned on the subject. He
had read no books and had never looked into his Bible
since he was fifteen years old. He seldom went to
church but because it was the fashion, and, when there,

JANE TALBOT. 6/

seldom spared a thought from his own temporal concerns,
to a future state and a governing Deity. All those ex-
pansions of soul produced hy meditation on the power
and goodness of our Maker, and those raptures that flow
from accommodating all our actions to his will, and from
consciousness of his approbation and presence, you dis-
covered to be strangers to his breast, and therefore you
scrupled to unite your fate with his.

It was not enough that this man had never been se-
duced into disbelief; that his faith was steadfast and
rational without producing those fervours, and reveries,
and rhapsodies, which unlit us for the mixed scenes of
human life, and breed in us absurd and fantastic notions
of our duty or our happiness ; that his religion had pro-
duced all its practical effects, in honest, regular, sober,
and consistent conduct.

You wanted a zealot ; a sectary ; one that should enter
into all the trifling distinctions and minute subtleties that
make one Christian the mortal foe of another, while, in
their social conduct, there is no difierence to be found
between them.

I do not repeat these things to upbraid you for what
you then were, but merely to remind you of the incon-
sistency of these notions with your subsequent conduct.
You then, at the instance of your father and at my in-
stance, gave them up; and that compliance, supposing
your scruples to have been undissembled, gave you a still
greater interest in our afl'ections.

You never gave me reason to suppose that you re-
pented of this compliance. I never saw you after your
engagement, but you wore a cheerful countenance ; at
least till your unfortunate connection with Golden. To
that connection must be traced every misfortune and
depravity that has attended you since.

When I heard, from Patty Sinclair, of his frequent
visits to you during your retirement at Burlington, I
thought of it but little. He was, indeed, a new acquaint-
ance. You were unacquainted with his character and
history, except so far as you could collect them from his
conversation; and no confldence could, of course, be
placed in that. It was therefore, perhaps, somewhat

68 JANE TALBOT.

indiscreet to permit such very frequent visits, such very
long walks. To neglect the friends -whom yoa lived with,
for the sake of exclusive conversations and lonely ram-
bles, noon and night, with a mere stranger, — one not
regularly introduced to you, — whose name you were
obliged to inquire of himself, — you, too, already a be-
trothed wflman ; your lover absent ; yourself from home,
and merely on terms of hospitality ! all this did not look
well.

But the mischief, it was evident, was to be known by
the event. Colden might have probity and circumspec-
tion. He might prove an agreeable friend to your future
husband and a useful companion to yourself. Kept
within du€ limits, your complacency for this stranger,
your attaichment to his company, might occasion no in-
convenience. How little did I then suspect to what ex-
tremes you w-ere capable of going, and even then had
actually gone !

The subject was of sufficient importance to induce me
to write to you. Your answer was not quite satisfactory,
yet, on the whole, laid my apprehensions at rest. I was
deceived by the confidence you expressed in your own
caution, and the seeming readiness there was to be governed
by my advice.

Afterwards, I heard, through various channels, with-
out any efforts on my pa,rt, intelligence of Golden. At
first I was not much alarmed. Golden, it is true, was
not a faultless or steadfast character. No gross or enor-
mous vices were ascribed to him. His habits, as far as
appearances enabled one to judge, were temperate and
chaste. He was contemplative and bookish, and was
vaguely described as being somewhat visionary and
romantic.

In all this there was nothing formidable. Such a man
might surely be a harmless companion. Those with whom
he was said to associate most intimately were highly
estimable. Their esteem was a test of merit not to be
disposed or hastily rejected.

Things, however, quickly took a new face. I was in-
formed that, after your return to the city. Golden con-
tinued to be a very constant visitant. Your husband's

JANE TALBOT. 69

voyage left you sooa after at liberty, and your inter-
course with this person only became more intimate and
confidential.

Reflecting closely on this circumstance, I began to
suspect some danger lurking in your path. I now re-
membered that impetuosity of feeling which distinguished
your early age; those notions of kindred among souls,
of friendship and harmony of feelings which, in your
juvenile age, you loved to indulge.

I reflected that the victory over these chimeras, which
you gained by marriage with Talbot, might be merely
temporary ; and that, in order to call these dormant feel-
ings into action, it was only requisite to meet with one
contemplative, bookish, and romantic as yourself.

Such a one, it was greatly to be feared, you had now
found in this young man ; just such qualities he was re-
ported to possess, as would render him dangerous to you
and you dangerous to him. A poet, not in theory only,
but in practice ; accustomed to intoxicate the women with
melodious flattery; fond of being intimate; avowedly
devoted to the sex; eloquent in his encomiums upon
female charms ; and afiecting to select his friends only
from that sex.

What eSect might such a character have upon your
peace, even without imputing any ill intention to him ?
Both of you might work your own ruin, while you de-
signed nothing but good; and even supposing that your
intercourse should be harmless, or even beneficial with
respect to yourselves, what was to be feared for Talbot?
An intimacy of this kind could hardly escape his obser-
vation on his return. It would be criminal, indeed, to
conceal it from him.

These apprehensions were raised to the highest pitch
by more accurate information of Colden's character,
which I afterwards received. I found, on inquiring of
those who had the best means of knowing, that Golden
had i mbibed that pernicious philosophy which is now so
much m vogue. One who knew him perfectly, who had
long been in habits of the closest intimacy with him, who
was still a familiar correspondent of his, gave me this
account.

70 JANE TALBOT.^,,<=' — \

I met tliis friend of Colden'8((TWmsop^iis name is,
of whom I suppose you have heaHT something) in this
city. His being mentioned as the intimate companion
of Golden made me wish to see him, and fortunately, I
prevailed upon him to be very communicative.

Thomson is an excellent young man : he loves Golden
much, and describes the progress of his friend's opinions
with ^very mark of regret. He even showed me letters
tJKft had passed between them, and in which every horrid
and immoi-al tenet was defended by one and denied by
the other Theselfitiers showed Golden as the advocate

of suicide s a scoffe r. at_promisfiaJ the^_cl^Tseror>eye-
latjoif, of Providence and a future state; an opponent of
imirnii;g^f'^ird''M"^DTrff~lv1io~9ei^^ any

thing but mere habit and positive law stood in the way
of marriage, nay, of intercourse without marriage, be-
tween brother and sister, parent and child !

You may readily believe that I did not credit such
things on slight evidence. I did not rely on Thomson's
mere words, solemn and unaffected as these were ; nothing
but Golden's handwriting could in such a case, be credited.

To say truth, I should not be much surprised had I
heard of Golden, as of a youth whose notions on moral
and religious topics were, in some degree, unsettled ; that,
in the fervour and giddiness incident to his age, he had
not tamed his mind to investigation; had not subdued
his heart to regular and devout thoughts ; that his passions
or his indolence had made the truths of religion some-
what obscure, and shut them out, not properly from his
conviction, but only from his attention.

I expected to find, united with this vague and dubious
state of mind, tokens of the influence of a pious educa-
tion ; a reverence, at least, for those sacred precepts on
which the happiness of men rests, and at least a practical
observance of that which, if not fully admitted by his
understanding, was yet very far from having been re-
jected by it.

But widely and deplorably different was Golden's case.
A most fascinating book* fell at length into his hands,

/* GoiIfldn'S^olitical Justice.

JANE TALBOT. 7 1

■which changed, in a moment, the whole course of his
ideas. What he had before regarded with reluctance
and terror, this book taught him to admire and love. The
■writer has the art of the grand deceiver; the fatal art
of carrying the -worst poison under the name and appear-
ance of wholesome food ; of disguising all that is impious,
or blasphemous, or licentious, under the guise and sanctions
of virtue.

Golden had lived before this without examination or
inquiry. His heart, his inclination, was perhaps on the
side of religion and true virtue ; but this book carried all
his inclination, his zeal, and his enthusiasm, over to the
adversary ; and so strangely had he been perverted, that
he held himself bound, he conceived it to be his duty, to
vindicate in private and public, to preach with vehemence,
his new faith. The rage for making converts seized him ;
and that Thomson was not won over to the same cause
proceeded from no want of industry in Golden.

Such was the man whom you had admitted to your con-
fidence ; whom you had adopted for your bosom friend.
I knew your pretensions to religion, the stress which you
laid upon piety as the basis of morals. I remembered
your objections to Talbot on this score, not only as a
husband, but as a friend. I could, therefore, only sup-
pose that Golden had joined dissimulation to his other
errors, and had gained and kept your good opinion by
avowing sentiments which his heart secretly abhorred.

I cannot describe to you, Jane, my alarms upon this
discovery. That your cook had intended to poison you,
the next meat which you should eat in your own house,
would have alarmed me, I assure you, much less. The
preservation of your virtue was unspeakably of more
importance in my eyes than of your life.

I wrote to you : and what was your reply ? I could
scarcely believe my senses. Every horrid foreboding
realized ! already such an adept in this accursed sophistry !
the very cant of that detestable sect adopted !

I had plumed myself upon your ignorance. He had
taken advantage of that, I supposed, and had won your
esteem by counterfeiting a moral and pious strain. To
make you put him forever at a distance, it was needed

72 JANE- TALBOT.

only to tear off his mask. This was done, but, alas, too
late for your safety. The poison was already swallowed.

I had no patience with you, to listen to your trifling
and insidious distinctions, — such as, though you could
audaciously urge them to me, possessed no weight, could
possess no weight, in your understanding. What was it
to me whether he was rufSan or madman ? whether, in
destroying you, he meant to destroy or to save ? Is it
proper to expose your breast to a sword, because the
wretch that wields it supposes madly that it is a straw
which he holds in his hand?

But I will not renew the subject. The same motives
that induced me to attempt to reason with you then no
longer exist. The anguish, the astonishment, which your
letters, as they gradually unfolded your character, pro-
duced in me, I endeavoured to show you at the time. Now
I pass them over to come to a more important circum-
stance.

Yet how shall I tell it thee, Jane? I am afraid to in-
trust it to paper. Thy fame is still dear to me. I would
not be the means of irretrievably blasting thy fame. Yet
what may come of relating some incidents on paper?

Faint is my hope, but I am not without some hope,

\ that thou canst yet be saved, bo snatched from perdition.

■•^Thy life I value not, in comparison with something higher.

And if, through an erring sensibility, the sacrifice of

Golden cost thee thy life, I shall yet rejoice. As the

wife of Golden thou wilt be worse than dead to me.

What has come to me, I wonder ? I began this letter
with a firm, and, as I thought, inflexible, soul. Despair
had made me serene; yet now thy image rises before me
with all those bewitching graces which adorned thee when
thou wast innocent and a child. All the mother seizes
my heart, and my tears suffocate me.

Shall I shock, shall I wound thee, my child, by lifting
the veil from thy misconduct, behind which thou thinkest
thou art screened from every human eye ? How little
dost thou imagine that I know so much I

Now will thy expostulations and reasonings have an
end. Surely they will have an end. Shame at last,
shame at last, will overwhelm thee and make thee dumb.

JANE TALBOT. 73

Yet my heart sorely misgives me. I shudder at the
extremes to which thy accac sed s educ^ may have urged
thee. What thou hast failed in concealing thou mayest
be so obdurately ■wicked as to attempt to justify.

Was it not the unavoidable result of confiding in a man
avowedly irreligious and immoral ; of exposing thy under-
standing and thy heart to such stratagems as his philo-
sophy made laudable and necessary ? But I know not
what I would say. I must lay down the pen till I can
reason myself into some composure. I will write again
to-morrow. H. Fieldee.

LETTER XVI.

To the same.

MY lost child ! T" thy Imnnilin.t.inna g.f f.^ js moment I

can a ympai.hize. T he shame that must follow the detec-
tion of it is more within my thoughts at present than the
negligence or infatuation that occasioned thy faults.

1 k now all. Thy intended husband knew it all. It
was Trom him that, the hnm hlp riHinga nf rb y unfaithftflj ^
ness to marriage-vows first came.

He visited this city on purpose to obtain an interview
with me. He entered my apartment with every mark of
distress. He knew well the effect of such tidings on my
heart. Most eagerly would I have laid down my life to
preserve thy purity spotless.

He demeaned himself as one who loved thee with a
rational affection, and who, however deeply he deplored
the loss of thy love, accounted thy defection from virtue
of infinitely greater moment.

I was willing to discredit even his assertion. Far better
it was that the husband should prove the defamer of his
wife, than that my darling child should prove a profligate.
But he left me no room to doubt, by showing me a letter.

He showed it me on condition of my being everlastingly
silent to you in regard to its contents. He yielded to a
jealousy which would not be conquered, and had gotten
this letter by surreptitious means. He was ashamed of

74 JANE TALBOT.

an action whicli Ms judgment condemned as ignoble and
deceitful.

Far more wise and considerate was this excellent and in-
jured man than I. He was afraid, by disclosing to you the
knowledge he had thus gained, of rendering you desperate
and hardened. As long as reputation was not gone, he
thought your errors were retrievable. He distrusted the
success of his own efforts, and besought me to be your guar-
dian. As to himself, he resigned the hope of ever gain-
ing your love, and entreated me to exert myself for dis-
solving your connection with Golden, merely for your
own sake.

To show me the necessity of my exertions, he Lad com-
municated this letter, believing that my maternal interest
in your happiness would prevent me from making any but
a salutary use of it. Yet he had not put your safety into
my hands without a surety. He was so fully persuaded
of the ill consequences of your knowing how much was
known, that he had given me the proofs of your guilt only
on my solemn promise to conceal them from you.

I saw the generosity and force of his representations,
land, while I endeavoured by the most earnest remon-
strances to break your union with Golden, I suffered no
particle of the truth to escape me. But you were hard
as a rock. You would not forbid his visits, nor reject
his letters.

I need not repeat to you what followed ; by what means
I endeavoured to effect that end which your obstinate
folly refused.

When I gave this promise to Talbot, I foresaw not his
spsfiiljcjieaxli and the consequences to Golden and your-
self. I have been affrighted at the rumour of your mar-
riage ; and, to justify the conduct I mean to pursue, I
have revealed to you what I promised to conceal merely
because I foresaw not the present state of your afiFairs.

You will not be surprised that, on your marriage with
this man, I should withdraw from you what you now hold
from my bounty. No faultiness in you shall induce me to
leave you without the means of decent subsistence; but I
owe no benevolence to Golden. My duty will not permit
me to give any thing to your paramour. When you change

JANE TALBOT. 75

your name you must change your habitation and leave
behind you whatever you found.

Think not, Jane, that I cease to love thee. I am not so
inhuman as to refuse my forgiveness to a penitent ; yet I
ask not thy penitence to insure thee my affection. I have
told thee my conditions, and adhere to them still.

To preclude all bickerings and cavils, I enclose the
letter -which attests your fall. H. Fielder.

(enclosed lettee.)"-^

LETTER XVII,

(enclosed letter. )
To Henry Colden.

Tuesday Morning.

You went away this morning before I was awake. I
think you might have stayed to breakfast ; yet, on second
thoughts, your early departure was best. Perhaps it
was so.

You have made me very thoughtful to-day. What
passed last night has left my mind at no liberty to read
and to scribble as I used to do. How your omens made
me shudder !

I want to see you. Can't you come again this evening ?
but no ; you must not. I must not be an encroacher. I
must judge of others, and of their claims upon your com-
pany, by myself and my own claims. Yet I should be
glad to see that creature who would dare to enter into
competition with me.

But I may as well hold my peace. My rights will not
be admitted by others. Indeed, no soul but yourself can
know them in all their extent, and, what is all I care for,
you are far from being strictly just to me !

Don't be angry, Hal. Skip the last couple of sen-
tences, or think of them as not mine: I disown them.
To-morrow, at six, the fire shall be stirred, the candles
lighted, and the sofa placed in order due. I shall be at
home to nobody; mind that.

I am loath to mention one thing, however, but I must,
'though nothing be due to the absent man, somewhat is

"J^i JANE TALBOT.

idue to myself. I have been excessively uneasy the whole
iday. I am terrified at certain consequences. What may

not happen if No; the last night's scene must not be

repeated; at least for a month to come. The sweet oh-
^livion of the future and past lasted only for the night.
Now I have leisure to looh forward, and am resolved (don't
laugh at my resolves; I am quite in earnest) to keep thee
at a distance for at least a fortnight to come. It shall be
a whole month if thou dost not submit with a good grace.

Jane Talbot.

LETTER XVIII.

To Mr. Henry olden.

New York, October 22.

Sir:—

I address myself to you as the mother of an unhappy
girl who has put herself into your power. But I write
not to upbraid you or indulge my own indignation, but
merely to beseech your compassion for her whom you
profess to love.

I cannot apologize for the manner in which I have acted
in regard to your connection with Jane Talbot. In that
respect, I must take to myself all the blame you may
choose to impute to me.

I call not into question the disinterestedness of your in-
tentions in proposing marriage to this woman ; nor, if the
information which I am going to give you should possess
any influence, shall I ascribe that influence to any thing
but a commendable attention to your true interest, and a
generous regard to the welfare of my daughter.

Be it known to you then, sir, that Mrs. Talbot pos-
sesses no fortune in her own right. Her present dwell-
ing, and her chief means of subsistence, are derived from
me: she holds them at my option; and they will be
instantly and entirely withdrawn, on her marriage with
you.

You cannot be unacquainted with the habits and views
in which my daughter has been educated. Her life has

JANE TALBOT. -j-j

passed in ease and luxury, and you cannot but perceive
the efifect of any material change in her way of life.

It would be a wretched artifice to pretend to any par-
ticular esteem for you, or to attempt to persuade you that
any part of this letter is dictated by any regard to your
interest, except as that is subservient to the interest of
one whom I can never cease to love.

Yet I ardently hope that this circumstance may not
hinder you from accepting bills upon London to the
amount of three hundred pounds sterling. They shall
be put into your hands the moment I am properly assured
that you have engaged your passage to Europe and are
determined to be nothing more than a distant well-wisher
to my daughter.

I am anxious that you should draw, from the terms of
this offer, proof of that confidence in your word which you
might not perhaps have expected from my conduct towards
you in other respects. Indeed, my conscience acquits
me of any design to injure you. On the contrary, it
would give me sincere pleasure to hear of your success
in every laudable pursuit.

I know your talents and the direction which they have
hitherto received. I know that London is a theatre best
adapted to the lucrative display of those talents, and that
the sum I offer will be an ample fund, till your own exer-
tions may be turned to account.

If this offer be accepted, I shall not only hold myself
everlastingly obliged to you, but I shall grant you a higher
place in my esteem. Yet, through deference to scruples
which you may possibly possess, I most cheerfully plight
to you my honour, that this transaction shall be concealed
from Mrs. Talbot and from all the world.
^ Though property is necessary to our happiness, and
my daughter's habits render the continuance of former
indulgences necessary to her content, I will not be so un-
just to her as to imagine that this is all which she regards.
Respect from the world, and the attachment of her an-
cient friends, are, also, of some value in her eyes. Re-
flect, sir, I beseech you, whether you are qualified to com-
pensate her for the loss of property, of good name, — my
own justification, in case she marries you, will require me

78 JANE TALBOT.

to be nothing more than just to her, — and of all her an-
cient friends, who will abhor in her the faithless wife and
the ungrateful child. I need not inform you that your
family will never receive into their bosom one whom her
own kindred have rejected. I am, &c.

H. Fielder.

LETTER XIX.
To Mrs. Fielder.

Philadelphia, October 28.

I NEED not hesitate a moment to answer this letter. I
will be all that my revered mamma wishes me to be. I

h ave vnwnri nn ntnrnal Hppq.rfl.tinn ff o m Colden ; and, tO

enable me to keep this vow, I entreat you to permit me
to come to you.

I will leave this house in anybody's care you direct.
My Molly and the boy Tom I shall find it no easy task
to part with ; but I will, nevertheless, send the former
to her mother, who is thrifty and well to live. I beg you
to permit me to bring the boy with me. I wait your
answer. Jane Talbot.

LETTER XX.
To Henry Colden.

Philadelphia, October 28.

MY friend ! Where are you at this trying moment ?
Why did you desert me ? Now, if ever, does my feeble
heart stand in need of your counsel and courage.

Did I ever lean these throbbing brows against your ai-m
and pour my tears into your bosom, that I was not com-
forted ? Never did that adored voice fail to whisper sweet
peace to my soul. In every storm, thy calmer and more
strenuous spirit has provided me the means of safety.
But now I look around for my stay, my monitor, my en-
courager, in vain.

JANE TALBOT. 79

You will make haste to despatch the business that de-
tains you. You will return, and fly, on the wings of love,
to thy Jane. Alas ! she will not be found. She will have
fled far away, and in her stead will she leave this sullen
messenger to tell thee that thy Jane has parted from thee
forever !

Do not upbraid me, Hal. Do not call me ungrateful or
rash. Indeed, I shall not be able to bear thy reproaches.
I know they will kill me quite.

And don't expostulate with me. Confirm me rather in
my new resolution. Even if you think it cruel or absurd,
aver that it is just. Persuade me that I have done my
duty to my mother, and assure me of your cheerful ac-
quiescence.

Too late is it now, even if I would, to recall my pro-
mise.

^faave promised to part with you. In the first tumult
of my soul, on receiving the enclosed letters, I wrote an
answer, assuring Mrs. Fielder of my absolute concurrence
with her will.

Already does my heart, calling up thy beloved image ;
reflecting on the immense debt which I owe to your gene-
rosity, on. the disappointment which the tidings of my
journey will give you; already do I repent of my precipi-
tation.

I have sought repose, but I find it not. My pillow is
moist with the bitterest tears that I ever shed. To give
vent to my swelling heart, I write to you; but I must
now stop. All my former self is coming back upon me,
and, while I think of you as of my true and only friend,
I shall be unable to persist. I will not part with thee, my
friend. I cannot do it. Has not my life been solemnly
devoted to compensate thee for thy unmerited love ? For
the crosses and vexations thou hast endured for my sake ?

Why shall I forsake thee ? To gratify a wayward and
groundless prejudice. To purchase the short-lived and
dubious affection of one who loves me in proportion as
I am blind to thy merit ; as I forget thy benefits ; as I
countenance the envy and slander that pursue thee.

Yet what shall I bring to thy arms ? A blasted repu-
tation^ poveTtypcontempt, the indignation of mine and of

8o JANE TALBOT.

thy friends. For thou art poor, and so am I. Thy kin-
dred have antipathies for me as strong as those that are
fostered against thyself Jane Talbot.

LETTER XXL

To Henry Colden.

October 28, Evening.

I TYTLL struggle for sufficient composure to finish this
letter. I have spent the day in reflection, and am now,
I hope, calm enough to review this most horrid and in-
explicable charge.

Look, my friend, at the letter she has sent me. It is
my handwriting, — the very same which I have so often
mentioned to you as having been, after so unaccountable
a manner, mislaid.

I wrote some part of it, alone, in my own parlour. You
recollect the time; — the day after that night which a
heavy storm of rain and my fatal importunity prevailed
on you to spend under this roof.

Mark the deplorable consequences of an act which the
coldest charity would not have declined. On such a night
I would have opened my doors to my worst enemy. Yet
because I turned not forth my best friend on such a night,
see to what a foul accusation I have exposedjgyself.

1 ha'^TroffimiKed, bulPif'^caHie irttfi^'my mind that
something in that which I had a little before received
from you might be seasonably noticed before I shut up
my billet. So I left my paper on the table, open, while
I ran up-stairs to get your letter, which I had left in a
drawer in my chamber.

While turning over clothes and papers, I heard the
street-door open and some one. enter. This did not hin-
der me from continuing my search! Txhought it was
my gossiping neighbour, [Miss_Jggaup5-and had some
hopes that, finding no one^ the parlour, she would
withdraw with as little ceremony as she entered.

My search was longer than I expected; but, finding

JANE TALBOT. 8 1

it at last, down I went, fully expecting to find a visitant,
not having heard any steps returning to the door.

But no visitant was there, and the paper was gone !
I was surprised, and a little alarmed. You know my
childish apprehensions of robbers.

I called up Molly, who was singing at her work in the
kitchen. She had heard the street-door open and shut,
and footsteps overhead, but she imagined them to be
mine. A little heavier, too, she recollected them to be,
than mine. She likewise heard a sound as if the door
had been opened and shut softly. It thus appeared that
my unknown visitant had hastily and secretly withdrawn,
and my paper had disappeared.

I was confounded at this incident. Who it was that
could thus purloin an unfinished letter and retire in order
to conceal the theft, I could not imagine. Nothing else
had been displaced. It was no ordinary thief, — no
sordid villain.

For a time, I thought perhaps it might be some face-
tious body, who expected to find amusement in puzzling
or alarming me. Yet I was not alarmed: for what had
I to fear or to conceal ? The contents were perfectly
harmless; and, being fully satisfied with the purity of
my own thoughts, 1 never dreamed of any construction
being put on them, injurious to me.

I soon ceased to think of this occurrence. I had no
cause, as I tlien thought, to be anxious about conse-
quences. The place of the lost letter was easily sup-
plied by my loquacious pen, and I came at last to con-
jecture that I had carelessly whisked it into the fire, and
that the visitant had been induced to withdraw, by find-
ing the apartment empty. Yet I never discovered any
one who had come in and gone out in this manner. Miss
Jessup, whom I questioned afterwards, had spent that
day elsewhere. And now, when the letter and its con-
tents were almost forgotten, does it appear before me,
and is off"ered in proof of this dreadful charge.

After reading my mother's letter, I opened with trem-
bling hand that which was enclosed. I instantly recog-
nised the long-lost billet. All of it appeared, on the
first perusal, to be mine. Even the last mysterious para-
6

82 JANE TALBOT.

graph was acknowledged by my senses. In tlie first
confusion of my mind, I knew not what to believe or
reject; my thoughts were wandering, and my repeated
efforts had no influence in restoring them to order.

Methinks I then felt as I should have felt if the
charge had been true. I shuddered as if to look back
would only furnish me with proofs of a guilt of which
I had not hitherto been conscious, — proofs that had
merely escaped remembrance, or had failed to produce
their due effect, from some infatuation of mind.

When the first horror and amazement were passed,
and I took up the letter and pondered on it once more,
I caught a glimpse suddenly; suspicion darted all at
once into my mind ; I strove to recollect the circum-
stances attending the writing of this billet.

Yes; it was clear. As distinctly as if it were the
work of yesterday, did I now remember that I stopped
at the words nolody; mind that. The following sen-
tences are strange to me. The character is similar to
what precedes, but the words were never penned by me.

And could Talbot — Yet what end ? a fraud so — Ah !
let me not suspect my husband of such a fraud. Let
me not have reason to abhor his memory.

I fondly imagined that with his life my causes of dis-
quiet were at an end; yet now are my eyes open to an
endless series of calamities and humiliations which his
decease had made sure.

I cannot escape from them. There is no help for
me. I cnnnotdis prove. ^ What testimony can I bring
to establish iTIyTnnocence^^^o prove that another hand
has added these detestable confessions?

True it is, you passed that night under my roof.
Where was my caution ? You, Henry, knew mankind
better than I : why did you not repel my importunities,
and leave me in spite of my urgencies for your stay ?

Poor, thoughtless wretch that I was, not to be aware of
the indecorum of allowing one of your sex, not allied to
me by kindred, — I, too, alone, without any companion
but a servant, — to pass the night in the same habitation !

What is genuine of this note acknowledges your hay-
ing lodged here. Thus much I cannot and need not

JANE TALBOT. 83

deny : yet how shall I make those distinctions visible to
Mrs. Fielder ? how shall I point out that spot in my billet
w here the forgery begins ? and at whose expense must I
vinaicate myselt i? Better incur the last degree of in-
famy myself, since it will not be deserved, than to load
him that has gone with reproach. Talbot sleeps, I hope,
in peace; and let me not, for any selfish or transitory
good, molest his ashes. Shall I not be contented with
the approbation of a pure and all-seeing Judge?

But, if I would vindicate myself, I have not the
power ; I have forfeited my credit with my mother.
With her my word will be of no weight; surely it
ought to weigh nothing. Against evidence of this kind,
communicated by a husband, shall the wild and impro-
bable assertion of the criminal be suffered to prevail ? I
have only my assertion to offer.

Yet, my good God ! in what a maze hast thou per-
mitted my unhappy feet to be entangled ! With inten-
tions void of blame, have I been pursued by all the con-
sequences of the most atrocious guilt.

In an evil hour, Henry, was it that I saw thee first.
What endless perplexities have beset me since that dis-
astrous moment! I cannot pray for their termination,
for prayer implies hope.

For thy sake, (God is my witness,) more than for my
own, have I determined to be no longer thine. I hereby
solemnly absolve you from all engagements to me. I
command you, I beseech you, not to cast away a thought
on the ill-fated Jane. Seek a more worthy companion,
and be happy.

Perhaps you will feel, not pity, but displeasure, in
receiving this letter. You will not deign to answer me,
perhaps, or will answer me with sharp rebuke. I have
only lived to trouble your peace, and have no claim to
your forbearance ; yet methinks I would be spared the
misery of hearing your reproaches, re-echoed as they
will be by my own conscience. I fear they will but
the more unfit me for the part that I wish henceforth
to act.

I would carry, if possible, to Mrs. Fielder's presence
a cheerful aspect. I would be to her that companion

84 JANE TALBOT.

which I was in my brighter days. To study her happi-
ness shall be henceforth my only office ; but this, unless
I can conceal from her an aching heart, I shall be unable
to do. Let me not carry with me the insupportable
weight of your reproaches. Jane Talbot.

LETTER XXIL

To Jane Talbot.

Baltimore, October 31.

You had reason to fear my reproaches; yet you have
strangely erred in imagining the cause for which I should
blame you. You are never tired, my good friend, of
humbling me by injurious suppositions.

I do, indeed, reproach you for conduct that is rash;
unjust; hurtful to yourself, to your mother, to me, to the
memory of him who, whatever were his faults, has done
nothing to forfeit your reverence.

You are charged with the blackest guilt that can be
imputed to woman. To know you guilty produces more
anguish in the mind of your accuser than any other evil
could produce, and to be convinced of your innocence
would be to remove the chief cause of her sorrow ; yet
you are contented to admit the charge ; to countenance
her error by your silence. By stating the simple truth,
circumstantially and fully ; by adding earnest and pathetic
assurances of your innocence; by showing all the letters
that have passed between us, the contents of which will
show that such guilt was impossible; by making your
girl bear witness to the precaution you used on that night
to preclude misconstructions, surely you may hope to dis-
arm her suspicions.

But this proceeding has not occurred to you. You have
mistrusted the power of truth, and even are willing to
perpetuate the error. And why ? Because you will not
blast the memory of the dead. The loss of your own
reputation, the misery of your mother, whom your
imaginary guilt makes misei-able, are of less moment in

JANE TALBOT. 85

your ej'CS than — what? Let not him, my girl, who
knows thee best, have most reason to blush for thee.
/I'albot, you imagine, forged this calumny. It was a
wrong thing, and much unhappiness has flowed from it.
This calumny you have it, at length, in your power to
refute. Its past eifects cannot be recalled; but here
the evil may end, the mistake may be cleared up, and
be hindered from destroying the future peace of your
mother.

Yet you forbear from tenderness to Ms memory, who,
if you are consistent with yourself, you must believe to
look back on that transaction with remorse, to lament
every evil which it has hitherto occasioned, and to rejoice
in the means of stopping the disastrous series.

My happiness is just of as little value. Your mother's
wishes, though allowed to be irrational and groundless,
are to be gratified by the disappointment of mine, which
appear to be just and reasonable ; and, since one must be
sacrificed, that afiection with which you have inspired
me and those benefits you confess to owe to me, those
sufferings believed by you to have been incurred by me
for your sake, do not, it seems, entitle me to preference.

On this score, however, my good girl, set your heart
at ease. I never assumed the merits you attributed to
me. I never urged the claims you were once so eager to
admit. I desire not the preference. If, by abjuring
me, your happiness could be secured ; if it were possible
for you to be that cheerful companion of your mother
which you seem so greatly to wish; if, in her society,
you could stifle every regret, and prevent your tranquillity
from being invaded by self-reproach, most gladly would
I persuade you to go to her and dismiss me from your
thoughts forever.

But I know, Jane, that this cannot be. You never
will enjoy peace under your mother's roof. The sighing
heart and the saddened features will forever upbraid her,
and bickering and repining will mar every domestic scene.
Your mother's aversion to me is far from irreconcilable,
but that which will hasten reconcilement will be marriage.
You cannot forfeit her love as long as you preserve your
integrity; and those scruples which no argument will

86 JANE TALBOT.

dissipate will yield to reflection on an evil (as she will
regard it) that cannot be remedied.

Admitting me, in this respect, to be mistaken, your
mother's resentment will ever give you disquiet. True;
but will your union with me console you nothing? in
pressing the hoped-for fruit of that union to your breast,
in that tenderness which you will hourly receive from me,
will there be nothing to compensate you for sorrows in
which there is no remorse, and which, indeed, will owe
their poignancy to the generosity of your spirit ?

You cannot unite yourself to me but with some view
to my happiness. Will your contributing to that happi-
ness be nothing?

Yet I cannot separate my felicity from yours. I can
enjoy nothing at the cost of your peace. In whatever
way you decide, may the fruit be content !

I ask you not for proofs of love, for the sacrifice of
others to me. My happiness demands it not. It only
requires you to seek your own good. Nothing but cease-
less repinings can follow your compliance v.'ith your
mother's wishes ; but there is something in your power
to do. You can hide these repinings from her, by living
at a distance from her. She may know you only through
the medium of your letters, and these may exhibit the
brightest side of things. She wants nothing but your
divorce from me, and that may take place without living
under her roof.

You need not stay here. The world is wide, and she
will eagerly consent to the breaking of your shackles by
change of residence. Much and the best part of your
country you have never seen. Variety of objects will
amuse you, and new faces and new minds erase the deep
impressions of the past. Golden and his merits may
sink into forgetfulness, or be thought of with no other
emotion than regret that a being so worthless was ever
beloved. But I wander from the true point. I meant
not to introduce myself into this letter, — self! — that vile
debaser whom I detest as my worst enemy, and who
assumes a thousand shapes and practises a thousand wiles
to entice me from the right path.

Ah, Jane, could thy sagacity discover no other cause

JANE TALBOT. 8/

of thy mother's error than Talbot's fraud? Could thy
heart so readily impute to him so black a treachery?
Such a prompt and undoubting conclusion it grieves me
to find thee capable of.

^ How much more likely that Talbot was himself de-
ceived ! For it was not by him that thy unfinished letter
was purloined. At that moment he was probably some
thousands of miles distant. It was five weeks before
his return from his Hamburg voyage, when that myste-
rious incident happened.

Be of good cheer, my sweet girl. I doubt not all will
be well. We shall find the means of detecting and de-
feating this conspiracy, and of re-establishing thee in
thy mother's good opinion. At present, I own, I do not
see the means ; but, to say truth, my mind is clouded by
anxieties, enfeebled by watching and fatigue.

You know why I came hither. I found my friend in
a very bad way, and have no hope but that his pangs,
which must end within a few days, may, for his sake,
terminate very soon. He will not part with me, and I
have seldom left his chamber since I came.

Your letter has disturbed me much, and I seize this
interval, when the sick man has gained a respite from
his pain, to tell you my thoughts upon it. I fear I have
not reasoned very clearly. Some peevishness, I doubt
not, has crept into my style. I rely upon your wonted
goodness to excuse it.

I have much to say upon this affecting subject, but
must take a future opportunity.

I also have received a letter from Mrs. Fielder, of
which I will say no more, since I send you enclosed that,
and my answer. I wish it had come at a time when my
mind was more at ease, as an immediate reply seemed to
be necessary. Adieu. Henry Golden.

88 JANE TALBOT.

LETTER XXIII.

To Mrs. Fielder.

Baltimore, NoTember 2.

Madam : —

It would indeed be needless to apologize for your be-
haviour to me. I not only acquit you of any enmity to
me, but beg leave to return you my warmest thanks for
the generous offers which you have made me in this letter.

I should be grossly wanting in that love for Mrs. Tal-
bot which you believe me to possess, if I did not partake
in that gratitude and reverence which she feels for one
who has performed for her every parental duty. The
esteem of the good is only of less value in my eyes than
the approbation of my own conscience. There is no
price which I would not pay for your good opinion, con-
sistent with a just regard to that of others and to my own.

I cannot be pleased with the information which you
give me. For the sake of my friend, I am grieved that
you are determined to make her marriage with me the
forfeiture of that provision which your bounty has hitherto
supplied her.

Forgive me if I say that, in exacting this forfeiture, you
will not be consistent with yourself. On her marriage with
me, she will stand in much more need of your bounty than
at present, and her merits, however slender you may deem
them, will then be, at least, not less than they now are.

If there were any methods by which I might be pre-
vented from sharing in gifts bestowed upon my wife, I
would eagerly concur in them.

I fully believe that your motive in giving me this timely
warning was a generous one. Yet, in justice to myself and
your daughter, I must observe that the warning was super-
fluous, since Jane never concealed from me the true state
of her affairs, and since I never imagined you would honour
with your gifts a marriage contracted against your will.

Well do I know the influence of early indulgences.
Your daughter is a strong example of that influence; nor
will her union with me, if by that union she forfeit your

JANE TALBOT. 89

favour, be any tiling more than a choice among evils all
of which are heavy.

My own education and experience sufficiently testify the
importance of riches, and I should be the last to despise
or depreciate their value. Still, much as habit has en-
deared to me the goods of fortune, I am far from setting
them above all other goods.

You offer me madam, a large alms. Valuable to me
as that sum is, and eagerly as I would accept it in any
other circumstances, yet at present I must, however re-
luctantly, decline it. A voyage to Europe and such a
sum, if your daughter's happiness were not in question,
would be the utmost bound of my wishes.

Shall I be able to compensate her ? you ask.

No, indeed, madam ; I am far from deeming myself
qualified to compensate her for the loss of property, re-
putation, and friends. I aspire to nothing but to console
her under that loss, and to husband as frugally as I can
those few meagre remnants of happiness which shall be
left to us.

I have seen your late letter to her. I should be less
than man if I were not greatly grieved at the contents ; yet,
madam, I am not cast down below the hope of convincing
you that the charge made against your daughter is false.
You could not do otherwise than believe it. It is for us
to show you by what means you, and probably Talbot
himself, have been deceived.

To suffer your charge to pass for a moment uncontra-
dicted would be unjust not more to ourselves than to you.
The mere denial will not and ought not to change your
opinion. It may even tend to raise higher the acrimony
of your aversion to me. It must ever be irksome to a
generous spirit to deny, without the power of disproving ;
but a tacit admission of the charge would be unworthy
of those who know themselves innocent.

Beseeching your favourable thoughts, and grateful for
the good which, but for the interference of higher duties,
your heart would prompt you to give and mine would not
scruple to accept, I am, &c. Henry Golden.

90 JANE TALBOT.

LETTER XXIV.

To Henry Colden.

Philadelphia, Nov. 2.

Ah, my friend, how mortifying are those proofs of thy
excellence? How deep is that dehasement into which I
am sunk, when I compare myself with thee !

It cannot he want of love that makes thee so easily
give me up. My feeble and jealous heart is ever prone
to suspect ; yet I ought at length to he above these un-
generous surmises.

My own demerits, my fickleness, my precipitation, are
so great, and so unlike thy inflexible spirit, that I am ever
ready to impute to thee that contempt for me which I
know I so richly deserve. I am astonished that so poor
a thing as I am, thus continually betraying her weakness,
should retain thy affection ; yet at any proof of coldness
or indifference in thee do I grow impatient, melancholy;
a strange mixture of upbraiding for myself, and resent-
ment for thee, occupies my feelings.

I have read thy letter. I shuddered when I painted to
myself thy unhappiness on receiving tidings of my reso-
lution' to join my mother. I felt that thy reluctance to
part with me would form the strongest obstacle to going ;
and yet, being convinced that I must go, 1 wanted thee
to counterfeit indifference, to feign compliance.

And such a wayward heart is mine that, now these as-
surances of thy compliance have come to hand, I am not
satisfied ! The poor contriver wished to find in thee an
affectation of indifference. Her humanity would be satis-
fied with that appearance ; but her pride demanded that
it should be no more than a veil, behind which the in-
consolable, the bleeding heart should be distinctly
seen.

You are too much in earnest in your equanimity. You
study my exclusive happiness with too unimpassioned a
soul. You are pleased when I am pleased ; but not, it
seems, the more so from any relation which my pleasure

JANE TALBOT. 9 1

bears to you: no matter what it is that pleases me, so I
am but pleased, you are content.

I don't like this oblivion of self. I want to be essential
to your happiness. I want to act with a view to your in-
terests and wishes, — these wishes requiring my love and
my company for your own sake.

But I have got into a maze again, — puzzling myself
with intricate distinctions. I can't be satisfied with tell-
ing you that I am not well, but I must be inspecting with
these careful eyes into causes, and labouring to tell you
of what nature my malady is.

It has always been so. I have always found an unac-
countable pleasure in dissecting, as it were, my heart ; un-
covering, one by one, its many folds, and laying it before
you, as a country is shown in a map. This voluble tongue
and this prompt pen ! what volumes have I talked to you
on that bewitching theme, — ^myself!

And yet, loquacious as I am, I never interrupted you
when you were talking. It was always such a favour
when these rigid fibres of yours relaxed ; and yet I praise
myself for more forbearance than belongs to me. The
little impertinent has often stopped your mouth, — at times
too when your talk charmed her most ; but then it was
not with words.

But have I not said this a score of times before ? and
why do I indulge this prate now ?

To say truth, I am perplexed and unhappy. Your
letter has made me so. My heart flutters too much to
allow me to attend to the subject of your letter. I follow
this rambling leader merely to escape from more arduous
paths, and I send you this scribble because I must write
to you. Adieu. Jane Talbot.

LETTER XXV.

To the Same.

Not. 3.

What is it, my friend, that makes thy influence over me
BO absolute ? No resolution of mine can stand against
your remonstrances. A single word, a look, approving or

92 JANE TALBOT.

condemning, transforms me into a new creature. The
dread of having oifended you gives me the most pungent
distress. Your "well done" lifts me above all reproach.
It is only when you are distant, when your verdict is un-
certain, that I shrink' from contumely, — that the scorn of
the world, though unmerited, is a load too heavy for my
strength.

Metliinks I should be a strange creature if left to my-
self. A very different creature, doubtless, I should have
been, if placed under any other guidance. So easily
swayed am I by one that is lord of my affections. No
Tvill, no reason, have I of my own.

Such sudden and total transitions ! In solitude I rumi-
nate and form my schemes. They seem to me unalter-
able : yet a word from you scatters all my laboured edifices,
and I look back upon my former state of mind as on some-
thing that passed when I was a lunatic or dreaming.

It is but a day since I determined to part with you, —
since a thousand tormenting images engrossed my ima-
gination : yet now am I quite changed ; I am bound to
you by links stronger than ever. No ; I will not part
with you.

Yet how shall I excuse my non-compliance to my mo-
ther? I have told her that I would come to her, that I
waited only for her directions as to the disposal of her
property. What will be her disappointment when I tell
her that I will not come ! — when she finds me, in spite of
her remonstrances, still faithful to my engagements to
thee !

Is there no method of removing this aversion ? of out-
rooting this deadly prejudice? And must I, in giving
myself to thee, forfeit her affection ?

And now — this dreadful charge ! no wonder that her
affectionate heart was sorely wounded by such seeming
proofs of my wickedness.

I thought at first — shame upon my inconsistent cha-
racter, my incurable blindness! I should never have
doubted the truth of my first thoughts, if you had not
helped me to a more candid conjecture. I was unjust
enough to load Mm with the guilt of this plot against
me, and imagined there was duty in forbearing to detect it.

JANE TALBOT. 93

Now, by thy means, do I judge otherwise. Yet how,
my friend, shall I unravel this mystery? My heart is
truly sad. How easily is my woman's courage lowered,
and how prone am I to despond !

Lend me thy aid, thy helping hand, my beloved. De-
cide and act for me, and be my weakness fortified, my
hope restored, by thee. Let me lose all separate feel-
ings, all separate existence, and let me know no prin-
ciple of action but the decision of your judgment, no
motive or desire but to please, to gratify you.

Our marriage, you say, will facilitate reconcilement
with my mother. Do you think so ? Then let it take
place, my dear Hal. Heaven permit that marriage may
tend to reconcile ! but, let it reconcile or not, if the wish
be yours it shall occupy the chief place in my heart.
The time, the manner, be it yours to prescribe. My
happiness, on that event, will surely want but little to
complete it; and, if you bid me not despair of my
mother's acquiescence, I will not despair.

I am to send your letter, after reading, to my mother,
I suppose. I have read it, Hal, more than once. And
for my sake thou declinest her offers ! When you thus
refuse no sacrifice on my account, shall I hesitate when
it becomes my turn ? Shall I ever want gratitude,
thinkest thou ? Shall I ever imagine that I have done
enough to evince my gratitude?

But how do I forget thy present situation ! Thy dying
friend has scarcely occurred to me. Thy afflictions, thy
fatigues, are absorbed in my own selfish cares.

I am very often on the brink of hating myself. So
much thoughtlessness of others ; such callousness to sor-
rows not my own : my hard heart has often reproached
thee for sparing a sigh or a wish from me ; that every
gloom has not been dispelled by my presence, was trea-
son, forsooth, against my majesty, and the murmurs that
delighted love should breathe, to welcome thy return,
were changed into half-vindictive reluctance, — not quite
a frown, — and upbraidings, in which tenderness was
almost turned out of door by anger.

In the present case, for instance, I have scarcely
thought of thy dying friend once. How much thy dis-

94 JANE TALBOT.

quiets Tfould be augmented by tbe letters which I sent
thee, never entered my thoughts. To hide our sorrows
from those who love us seems to be no more than gene-
rous. Yet I never hid any thing from thee. All was
uttered that was felt. I considered not attending cir-
cumstances. The bird, as soon as it was scared, flew
into the bosom that was nearest, and, merely occupied
with dangers of its own, was satisfied to find a refuge
there.

And yet — See now, Vanity, the cunning advocate,
entering with his And yet. Would I listen to him, what
a world of palliations and apologies would he furnish !
How would he remind me of cases in which my sym-
pathy was always awakened with attention ! How often
— But I will not listen to the flatterer.

And, now I think of it, Hal, you difier from me very
much in that respect. Every mournful secret must be
wrung from you. You hoard up all your evil thoughts,
and brood over them alone. Nothing but earnest impor-
tunity ever got from you any of your griefs.

Now, this is cruel to yourself and unjust to me. It is
denying my claim to confidence. It is holding back from
me a part of yourself. It is setting light by my sympathy.

And yet — the prater Vanity once more, you see : but
I will let him speak out this time. Here his apology is
yours, and myself am only flattered indirectly.

And yet, when I have extorted from you any secret
sorrow, you have afterwards acknowledged that the dis-
closure was of use : — that my sympathizing love was grate-
ful to you, and my counsel of some value ; that you drew
from my conduct on those occasions new proofs of my
strength of mind, and of my right — a right which my afiec-
tion for you gave me — to share with you all your thoughts.

Yet, on the next occasion that offers, you are sure to
relapse into your habitual taciturnity, and my labours to
subdue it are again to be repeated. I have sometimes
been tempted to retaliate, and convince you, by the
effects of my concealments upon you, of the error of your
own scheme.

But I never could persist in silence for five minutes
together. Shut up as the temple of my heart is to the

JANE TALBOT. 95

rest of mankind, all its doors fly open of their own
accord when you approach.

Now am I got into my usual strain ; in which I could
persevere forever. No wonder it charms me so much,
since, while thus pursuing it, I lose all my cares in a
sweet oblivion; but I must stop at last, and recall my
thoughts to a less welcome subject.

Painful as it is, I must write to my mother. I will do
it now, and send you my letter. I will endeavour, here-
after, to keep alive a salutary distrust of myself, and do
nothing without your approbation and direction. Such
submission becomes thy Jane.

LETTER XXVI.

To Mrs. Fielder.

Philadelphia, November 4.

I TREMBLE thus to approach my honoured mother once
more, since I cannot bring into her presence the heart that
she wishes to find. Instead of acknowledgment of faults,
and penitence suitable to their heinous nature, I must
bring with me a bosom free from self-reproach, and a con-
fidence, which innocence only can give, that I shall be
some time able to disprove the charge brought against me.

Ah, my mother ! could such guilt as this ever stain a
heart fashioned by your tenderest care ? Did it never
occur to you that possibly some mistake might have
■misled the witness against me ?

The letter which you sent me is partly mine. All that
is honest and laudable is mine, but that which confesses
dishonour has been added by another hand. By whom
my handwriting was counterfeited, and for what end, I
know not. I cannot name any one who deserves to be
suspected.

I might proceed to explain the circumstances attend-
ing the writing and the loss of this letter, so fatal to me;
but I forbear to attempt to justify myself by means
which, I know beforehand, will efiect nothing, unless it
be to aggravate, in your eyes, my imaginary guilt.

96 JANE TALBOT.

If it were possible for you to suspend your judgment;
if the most open, and earnest, and positive averments of
my innocence could induce you, not to reverse, but
merely to postpone, your sentence, you would aiFord me
unspeakable happiness.

You tell me that the loss of your present bounty will
be the consequence of my marriage. My claims on you
are long ago at an end. Indeed, I never had any claims.
Your treatment of me has flown from your unconstrained
benevolence. For what you have given, for the tender-
ness which you continually bestowed on me, you have
received only disappointment and affliction.

For all your favours I seem to you ungrateful ; yet long
after that conduct was known which, to you, proves my
unworthiness, your protection has continued, and you are
so good as to assure me that it shall not be withdrawn as
long as I have no protector but you.

Dear as my education has made the indulgences of com-
petence to me, I hope I shall relinquish them without a
sigh. Had you done nothing more than screen my in-
fancy and youth from hardship and poverty, than sup-
ply the mere needs of nature, my debt to you could
never be paid.

But how much more than this have you done for me !
You have given me, by your instructions and example,
an understanding and a heart. You have taught me to
value a fair fame beyond every thing but the peace of
virtue ; you have made me capable of a generous afFection
for a benefactor equal to yourself; capable of acting so
as at once to deserve, and to lose your esteem ; and en-
abled me to relinquish cheerfully those comforts and
luxuries which cannot be retained but at the price of my
integrity.

I look forward to poverty without dismay. Perhaps
I make light of its evils because I have never tried them.
I am indeed a weak and undiscerning creature. Yet
nothing but experience will correct my error, if it be an
error.

So sanguine am I that I even cherish the belief that
the privation of much of that ease which I have hitherto
enjoyed will strengthen my mind, and somewhat qualify

JANE TALBOT. 97

me for enduring those evils ■which I cannot expect always
to escape.

You know, my mother, that the loss of my present
provision TTill not leave me destitute. If it did, I know
your generosity too well to imagine that you would with-
draw from me all the means of support.

Indeed, my own fund, slender as it is in comparison
with what your bounty supplies me, is adequate to all my
personal wants : I am sure it would prove so on the trial.
So that I part with your gifts with less reluctance, though
with no diminution of my gratitude.

If I could bring to you my faith unbroken, and were
allowed to present to you my friend, I would instantly
fly to your presence ; but that is a felicity too great for
my hope. The alternative, however painful, must be
adopted by Your ever-grateful Jane.

LETTER XXVII.

To Mrs. Talhot.

Baltimore, November 5.

I HIGHLY approve of your letter. It far exceeded the
expectations I had formed of you. You are indeed a
surprising creature.

One cannot fail to be astonished at the differences of
human characters ; at the opposite principles by which
the judgments of men are influenced.

Experience, however, is the antidote of wonder. There
was a time when I should have reflected on the sentiments
of your mother with a firm belief that no human being
could be practically influenced by them.

She offers, and surely with sincerity, to divide her large
property with you ; to give away half her estate during
her own life, and while, indeed, she is yet in her prime :
and to whom give it ? To one who has no natural relation
to her ; who is merely an adopted child ; who has acted
for several years in direct repugnance to her will, in a
manner she regards as not only indiscreet, but flagrantly
criminal. Whom one guilty act has (so-it must appear
7

98 JANE TALBOT.

to your mamma) involved in a continued series of false-
hoods and frauds.

She offers this immense gift to you, on no condition but
a mere verbal promise to break oif intercourse with the
man you love, and with ivhom you have been actually
/criminal.

She seems not aware how easily promises are made
that are not designed to be performed; how absurd it
would be to rely upon your integrity in this respect, when
you have shown yourself (so it must appear to her) grossly
defective in others of infinitely greater moment. How
easily might a heart like yours be persuaded to recall its
promises, or violate this condition, as soon as the perform-
ance of her contract has made you independent of her
and of the world !

You promise — it is done in half a dozen syllables — that
you will see the hated Golden no more. All that you
promise, you intend. To-morrow she enriches you with
half her fortune. Next day the seducer comes, and may
surely expect to prevail on you to forget this promise, since
he has conquered your firmness in a case of unspeakably
greater importance.

This offer of hers surely indicates not only love for
you, but reverence for your good faith inconsistent with
the horrid imputation she has urged against you.

As to me, what a portrait does her letter exhibit ! And
yet this scoffer at the obligation of a promise is offered
four or five thousand dollars on condition that he plights
his word to embark for England and to give up all his
hopes of you.

Villain as he is ; a villain not by habit or by passion,
but h J principle ; a cool-blooded, systematic villain; yet
she will give him affluence and the means of depraving
thousands by his example and his rhetoric, on condition
that he refuses to marry the woman whom he has made
an adulteress ; who has imbibed, from the contagion of
his discourse, all the practical and speculative turpitude
which he has to impart.

This conduct might be considered only as proving her
aversion to me. So strong is it as to impel her to in-
discreet and self-destructive expedients ; and so I should

JANE TALBOT. 99

likewise reason if these very expedients did not argue a
confidence in my integrity somewhat inconsistent with the
censure passed on my morals.

After all, is there not reason to question the sincerity
of her hatred ? Is not thy mother a dissembler, Jane ?
Does she really credit the charge she makes against thee?
Does she really suppose me that insane philosopher which
her letter describes ?

Yet this is only leaping from a ditch into a quicksand.
It is quite as hard to account for her dissimulation as for
her sincerity. Why should &he pretend to suspect you
of so black a deed, or me of such abominable tenets \

And yet, an observer might say, it is one thing to pro-
mise and another to perform, in her case as well as in ours.
She tells us what she will do, provided we enter into such
engagements ; but, if we should embrace her offers, is it
certain that she would not hesitate, repent, and retract?

Passion may dictate large and vehement offers upon
paper, which deliberating prudence would never allow to
be literally adhered to.

Besides, may not these magnificent proposals be dic-
tated by a knowledge of our characters, which assured
her that they would never be accepted ? But, with this
belief, why should the offers be made?

The answer is easy. These offers, by the kindness and
respect for us which they manifest, engage our esteem
and gratitude, and, by their magnitude, show how deeply
she abhors this connection, and hence dispose us to do
that, for pity's sake, which mere lucre would never re-
commend.

And here is a string of guesses to amuse thee, Jane.
Their truth or falsehood is of little moment to us, since
these offers ought not to influence our conduct.

One thing is sure ; that is, thy mother's aversion to
me. And yet I ought not to blame her. That I am an
atheist in morals, the seducer of her daughter, she fully
believes ; and these are surely sufficient objections to me.
Would she be a discerning friend or virtuous mother if
she did not, with this belief, remonstrate against your
alliance with one so wicked?

The fault lies not with her. With whom, then, does

lOO JANE TALBOT.

it lie? Or, what only is important, ■where is the remedy?
Expostulation and remonstrance will avail nothing. I
cannot be a hypocrite : I cannot dissemble that I have
once been criminal, and that I am, at present, conscious
of a thousand weaknesses and self-distrusts. There is
but one meagre and equivocal merit that belongs to me.
T stick to the truth ; yet this is a virtue of late growth.
It has not yet acquired firmness to resist the undermining
waves of habit, or to be motionless amidst the hurricane
of passions.

You offer me yourself. I love you. Shall I not then
accept your offer? Shall my high conception of your
merits, and my extreme contempt and distrust of myself,
hinder me from receiving so precious a boon? Shall I
not make happy by being happy? Since you value me
so much beyond my merits; since my faults, though fully
disclosed to you, do not abate your esteem, do not change
your views in my favour, shall I withhold my hand 1

I am not obdurate. I am not ungrateful. With you
I never was a hypocrite. "With the rest of the world I
have ceased to be so. If I look forward without con-
fidence, I look back with humiliation and remorse. I
have always wished to be good, but, till I knew you, I
despaired of ever being so, and even now my hopes are
perpetually drooping.

I sometimes question, especially since your actual
condition is known, whether I should accept your offered
hand ; but mistake me not, my beloved creature. My
distrust does not arise from any doubts of my own con-
stancy. That I shall grow indifferent or forgetful or
ungrateful to you, can never be.

AH my doubts are connected with you. Can I com-
pensate you for those losses which will follow your mar-
riage? — the loss of your mother's affection, — the ex-
change of all that splendour and abundance you have
hitherto enjoyed for obscurity and indigence ?

You say I can. The image of myself in my O'^vn mind
is a sorry compound of hateful or despicable qualities. I
am even out of humour with my person, my face. So
absurd am I in my estimates of merit, that my homely
features and my scanty form had their part in restraining

JANE TALBOT. loi

me from aspiring to one supreme in loveliness, and in
causing the surprise that followed the discovery of your
passion.

In your eyes, however, this mind and this person are
venerable and attractive. My aifection, my company,
are chief goods with you. The possession of all other
goods cannot save you from misery, if this be wanting.
The loss of all others will not bereave you of happiness
if this be possessed.

Fain would I believe you. You decide but reasonably.
Fortune's goods ought not to be so highly prized as the
reason of many prizes them, and as my habits, in spite
of reason's dissent and remonstrances, compel me to prize
them. They contribute less to your happiness, and that
industry and frugality which supplies their place, you
look upon without disgust; with even some degree of
satisfaction.

Not so I : I cannot labour for bread ; I cannot work
to live. In that respect I have no parallel. The world
does not contain my likeness. My very nature unfits
me for any profitable business. My dependence must
ever be on others or on fortune.

As to the influence of some stronger motive to industry
than has yet occurred, I am without hope. There can
be no stronger ones to a generous mind, than have
long been urgent with me : being proof against these,'
none will ever conquer my reluctance.

I am not indolent, but my activity is vague, profitless,
capricious. No lucrative or noble purpose impels me. I
aim at nothing but selfish gratification. I have no relish,
indeed, for sensual indulgences. It is the intellectual
taste that calls for such banquets as imagination and
science can furnish; but, though less sordid than the
epicure, the voluptuary, or the sportsman, the principle
that goverrfs them and me is the same ; equally limited
to self; equally void of any basis in morals or religion.

Should you give yourself to me, and rely upon my
labour for shelter and food, deplorable and complete
would be your disappointment. I know myself too well
to trus't myself with such an office. My love for you
would not strengthen my heart or my hands. No; it

102 JANE TALBOT.

■would only sink me ■with more speed into despair.
Quickly, and by some fatal deed, should I abandon you,
my children and the "world.

Possibly I err. Possibly I underrate my strength of
mind and the influence of habit, ■ivhich makes easy to us
every path ; but I will not trust to the possihle.

Hence it is that, if by marriage you should become
■wholly dependent on me, it could never take place. Some
freak of fortune may indeed place me above want, but
my own efforts never will. Indeed, in this forbearance,
in this self-denial, there is no merit. While admitted to
the privileges of a betrothed man, your company, your
confidence, every warrantable proof of love mine, I may
surely dispense with the privileges of ■n'edlock. Secretly
repine I might ; occasionally I might murmur. But my
days would glide along with fewer obstacles, at least,
than if I were that infirm and disconsolate wretch, your
husband.

But this unhappy alternative is not ours. Thou hast
something which thy mother cannot take away ; sufficient
for thy maintenance, thy frugal support. Meaner and
more limited indeed than thy present and former afflu-
ence ; such as I, of my own motion, would never reduce
thee to ; such as I can object to only on thy own account.

How has the night run away ! My friend's sister ar-
rived here yesterday. They joined in beseeching me to
go to a separate chamber and strive for some refresh-
ment. I have slept a couple of hours, and that has suf-
ficed. ]My mind, on waking, was thronged with so many
images connected with my Jane, that I started up at last
and betook myself to the pen.

Yet how versatile and fleeting is thought ! In this long
letter I have not put down one thing that I intended. I
meant not to repeat what has been so often said before,
and especially I meant not to revolve, if I could help it,
any gloomy ideas.

Thy letters gave me exquisite pleasure. They dis-
played all thy charming self to my view. I pressed
every precious line to my lips with nearly as much rap-
ture as I would have done the prattler herself, had she
been talking to me all this tenderness instead of writing it.

JANE TALBOT. IO3

I took up the pen that I might tell thee my thanks,
yet rambled almost instantly into mournful repetitions.
I have half a mind to burn the scribble, but I cannot
■vrrite more just now, and this will show you, at least,
that I am not unmindful of you. Adieu. Golden.

LETTER XXVIII.

To Mrs. Talbot.

Baltimore, November 6.

Let me see ! this is the beginning of November. Yes ;
it was just a twelvemonth ago that I was sitting, at this
silent hour, at a country-fire just like this. My elbow
then as now was leaning on a table, supplied with books
and writing-tools.

"What shall I do," thought I, "then, to pass away
the time till ten ? Can't think of going to bed till that
hour, and if I sit here, idly basking in the beams of this
cheerful blaze, I shall fall into a listless, uneasy doze,
that, without refreshing me, as sleep would do, will unfit
me for sleep.

"Shall I read? Nothing here that is new. Enough
that is of value, if I could but make myself inquisitive ;
treasures which, in a curious mood, I would eagerly rifle ;
but now the tedious page only adds new weight to m.y
eyelids.

"Shall I write? What? to whom? there are Sam
and Tom, and brother Dick, and sister Sue : they all
have epistolary claims upon me still unsatisfied. Twenty
letters that I ought to answer. Come, let me briskly set
about the task

"Not now; some other time. To-morrow. What
can I write about? Haven't two ideas that hang to-
gether intelligibly. 'Twill be commonplace trite stufi".
Besides, writing always plants a thorn in my breast.

"Let me try my hand at a reverie; a meditation, — on
that hearth-brush. Hair — what sort of hair ? of a hog ;
and the wooden handle — of poplar or cedar or white oak.
At one time a troop of SAvine munching mast in a grove

104 JANE TALBOT.

of oaks, transformed by those magicians, carpenters and
butchers, into hearth-brushes. A ■whimsical metamor-
phosis, upon my faith !

"Pish! what stupid musing! I see I must betake
myself to bed at last, and throw away upon oblivion one
more hour than is common."

So it once was. But how is it now ? no wavering and
deliberating what I shall do, — to lash the drowsy mo-
ments into speed. In my haste to set the table and its
gear in order for scribble, I overturn the inkhorn, spill
the ink, and stain the floor.

The damage is easily repaired, and I sit down, with
unspeakable alacrity, to a business that tires my muscles,
sets a gnawer at work upon my lungs, fatigues my brain,
and leaves me listless and spiritless.

How you have made yourself so absolute a mistress
of the goose-quill, I can't imagine ; how you can main-
tain the writing posture and pursue the writing move-
ment for ten hours together, without benumbed brain or
aching fingers, is beyond my comprehension.

But you see what zeal will do for me. It has enabled
me to keep drowsiness, fatigue, and languor at bay during
a long night. Converse with thee, heavenly maid, is an
antidote even to sleep, the most general and inveterate
of all maladies.

By-and-by I shall have as voluble a pen as thy own.
And yet to tlmt^ my crazy constitution says. Nay. 'Twill
never be to me other than an irksome, ache-producing im-
plement. It need give pleasure to others, not a little, to
compensate for the pain it gives myself.

But this, thou'lt say, is beside the purpose. It is ; and
I will lay aside the quill a moment to consider. I left off
my last letter, lyith a head full of affecting images, which
I have waited impatiently for the present opportunity of
putting upon paper. Adieu, then, for a moment, says thy

Golden.

JANE TALBOT. lOJ

LETTER XXIX.

To tJie Same.

10 o'clock at night.

Now let us take a view of what is to come. Too often
I endeavour to escape from foresight when it presents to
me nothing but evils, but now I must, for thy sake, be
less a coward.

In six weeks Jane becomes mine. Till then, thy mother
will not cast thee out of her protection. And will she
then ? will she not allow of thy continuance in thy pre-
sent dwelling ? and, though so much displeased as to refuse
thee her countenance and correspondence, will she indeed
turn thee out of doors ? She threatens it, we see ; but I
suspect it will never be more than a threat, employed,
perhaps, only to intimidate and deter ; not designed to be
enforced. Or, if made in earnest, yet, when the irrevoca-
ble deed is done, will she not hesitjile to inflict the penalty ?
Will not her ancient affection ; thy humility, thy sorrow,
thy merits, — such as, in spite of this instance of contu-
macy, she cannot deny thee, — will not these effectually
plead for thee ?

More than ever will she see that thou needest her bounty;
and, since she cannot recall what is past, will she not relent
and be willing to lessen the irremediable evil all she can ?

There is one difficulty that I know not how to surmount.
Giving to the wife will be only giving to the husband.
Shall one whom she so much abhors be luxuriously sup-
plied from her bounty ?

The wedded pair must live together, she will think ; and
shall this hated encroacher iSnd refuge from beggary and
vileness under her roof, — be lodged and banqueted at her
expense ? That her indignant heart will never suffer.

Would to Heaven she would think of me with less ab-
horrence ! I wish for treatment conformable to her as-
sumed relation to thee, for all our sakes. As to me, I have
no pride ; no punctilio, that will stand in the way of re-
conciliation. At least there is no deliberate and steadfast
sentiment of that kind. When I reason the matter with

I06 JANE TALBOT.

myself, I perceive a sort of claim to arise from my poverty
and relation to thee on the one hand, and, on the other,
from thy merit, thy affinity to her, and her capacity to bene-
fit. Yet I will never supplicate — not meanly supplicate
— for an alms. I will not live, nor must thou, when thou art
mine, in Jier house. Whatever she will give thee, money,
or furniture, or clothes, receive it promptly and with
gratitude ; but let thy home be thy own. For lodging
and food be thou the payer.

And where shall he, thy home ? You love the comforts,
the ease, the independence of a household. Your own
pittance will not suffice for this. All these you must re-
linquish for my sake. You must go into a family of
strangers. You must hire a chamber, and a plate of such
food as is going. You must learn to bear the humours
and accommodate yourself to the habits of your inmates.

Some frugal family and humble dwelling must content
thee. A low roof, a narrow chamber, and an obscure
avenue, the reverse of all the specious, glossy, and abun-
dant that surround the#now, will be thy portion, — all that
thou must look for as my wife. And how will this do,
Jane ? Is not the price too great ?

And my company will not solace thee under these in-
conveniences. I must not live with thee ; only an occa-
sional visitor ; one among a half-dozen at a common fire ;
with witnesses of all we say. Thy pittance will do no
more than support thyself. / must house myself and feed
elsewhere. Where, I know not. That will depend upon
the species of employment I shall be obliged to pursue for
my subsistence. Scanty and irksome it will be, at best.

Once a day I may see thee. Most of my evenings may
possibly be devoted to thy company. A soul harassed by
unwelcome toil, eyes dim with straining at tiresome or
painful objects, shall I bring to thee. If now and then
we are alone, how can I contribute to thy entertainment ?
The dny's task will furnish me with nothing new. In-
stead of alleviating, by my cheerful talk, thy vexations and
discomforts, I shall demand consolation from thee.

And yet imperious necessity may bereave us even of
that joy. I may be obliged to encounter the perils of
the seas once more. Three-fourths of the year, the ocean

JANE TALBOT. 10/

may divide us, thou in solitude, the while, pondering on
the dangers to which I may be exposed, and I, a prey to
discontent, and tempted in some evil hour to forget thee,
myself, and the "world.

How my heart sinks at this prospect ! Does not thine,
Jane ? Dost thou not fear to take such a wretched chance
with me? I that know myself, my own imbecility, — I
ought surely to rescue thee from such a fate, by giving
thee up.

I can write no more just now. I wonder how I fell
into this doleful strain. It was silly in me to indulge it.
These images are not my customary inmates. Yet, now
that they occur to me, they seem but rational and just.
I want, methinks, to know how they appear to thee.
Adieu. Henkt Golden.

LETTER XXX.
To the same.

Wilmington, NoTember 7.

I HAVE purposely avoided dwelling on the incidents
that are passing here. They engi'oss my thoughts at all
times but those devoted to the pen, and to write to thee
is one expedient for loosening their hold.

An expedient not always successful. My mind wan-
ders, in spite of me, from my own concerns and from thine,
to the sick-bed of my friend. A reverie, painful and con-
fused, invades me now and then ; my pen stops, and I am
obliged to exert myself anew to shake oiF the spell.

Till now, I knew not how much I loved this young man.
Strange beings we are ! Separated as we have been for
many a year, estranged as much by difference of senti-
ments as local distance, his image visiting my memory
not once a month, and then a transitory, momentary
visit ; had he died a year ago, and I not known it, the
stream of my thoughts would not have been ruffled by a
single impediment. Yet, now that I stand over him and
witness his decay

Many affecting conversations we have had. I cannot

I08 JANE TALBOT.

repeat them now. After lie is gone, I will put tliem all
u^rTlxiper and muse upon them often,
r Ilis ilosing hour is serene. His piety now stands him
io-stjfefe stead. In calling me hither, he tells me that he
designed not his own gratification, but my good. He
Avished to urge upon me the truths of religion, at a time
when his own conduct might visibly attest their value.
By their influence in making that gloomy path which
leads to the grave joyous and lightsome, he wishes me
to judge of their excellence.

His pains are incessant and sharp. He can seldom
articulate without an effort that increases his pangs ; yet
he talks much in cogent terms, and with accurate con-
ceptions, and, in all he says, evinces a pathetic earnest-
ness for my conviction.

I listen to him with a heart as unbiassed as I can pre-
vail on it to be ; as free, I mean, from its customary bias ;
for I strive to call up feelings and ideas similar to his. I
know how pure to him would be the satisfaction of leaving
the world with the belief of a thorough change in me.

I argue not with him. I say nothing but to persuade
him that I am far from being that contumacious enemy
to his faith which he is prone to imagine me to be.

Thy mother's letter has called up more vividly than
usual our ancient correspondence, and the effects of that
disclosure. Yet I have not mentioned the subject to him,
I never mentioned it. I could not trust myself to mention
it. There was no need. The letters were written by me.
I did not charge him to secrecy, and, if I had, he would
not have been bound to compliance. It was his duty to
make that use of them which tended to prevent mis-
chief, — which appeared to him to have that tendency ;
and this he has done. His design, I have no doubt, was
benevolent and just.

He saw not all the consequences that have followed,
'tis true; but that ignorance would justify him, even if
these consequences were unpleasing to him ; but they
would not have displeased, had they been foreseen. They
would only have made his efforts more vigorous, his dis-
closures more explicit.

His conduct, indeed, on that occasion, as far as we

JANE TALBOT. IO9

know it, seems irregular and injudicious. To lay before
a stranger private letters from his friend, in which
opinions were avowed and defended that he knew would
render the writer detestable to her that read.

He imagined himself justified in imputing to me atro-
cious and infamous errors. He was grieved for my de-
basement, and endeavoured, by his utmost zeal and elo-
quence, to rectify these errors. This was generous and
just: but needed he to proclaim these errors and blazon
this infamy?

Yet ought I to wish to pass upon the world for other
than I am ? Can I value that respect which is founded
in ignorance? Can I be satisfied with caresses from
those who, if they knew me fully, would execrate and
avoid me?

For past faults and rectified errors, are not remorse and
amendment adequate atonements? If any one despise
me for what I was., let me not shrink from the penalty.
Let me not find pleasure in the praise of those whose
approbation is founded on ignorance of what I am. It
is unjust to demand, it is sordid to retain, praise thart-is
not merited either by our present conduct or our past/
Why have I declined such praise ? Because I valite it not.

Thus have I endeavoured to think in relation W Thom-
son. My endeavour has succeeded. My heart entirely
acquits him. It even applauds him for his noble sincerity.

Yet I could never write to him or talk to him on this
subject. My tongue, my pen, will be sure to falter. I
know that he will boldly justify his conduct, and I feel
that he ought to justify ; yet the attempt to justify would
awaken — indignation, selfishness. In spite of the sug-
gestions of my better reason, I know we should quarrel.

We should not quarrel now., if the topic were mentioned.
Of indignation against him, even for a real fault, much
less for an imaginary one, I am, at this time, not capable ;
but it would be useless to mention it. There is nothing
to explain; no misapprehensions to remove, no doubts to
clear up. All that he did, I, in the same case, ought to
have done.

But I told you I wished not to fill my letters with the
melancholy scene before me. This is a respite, a solace

no JANE TALBOT.

to me ; and thus, and in reading thy letters, 1 employ all
my spare moments.

Write to me, my love. Daily, hourly, and cheerfully,
if possible. Borrow not ; be not thy letters tinged with
the melancholy hue of this.

Write speedily and much, if thou lovest thy

Golden.

LETTER XXXI.

To Henry Colden.

Philadelphia, Nov. 9.

What do you mean, Hal, by such a strain as this ? I
wanted no additional causes of disquiet. Yet you tell
me to write cheerfully. I would have written cheerful-
ly, if these letters, so full of dark forebodings and rueful
prognostics, had not come to damp my spirits.

And is the destiny that awaits us so very mournful ?
Is thy wife necessarily to lose so many comforts and
incur so many mortifications ? Are my funds so small,
that they will not secure to me the privilege of a sepa-
rate apartment, in which I may pass my time with whom
'and in what manner I please ?

Must I huddle, with a dozen squalling children and
their notably-noisy or sluttishly-indolent dam, round a
idirty hearth and meagre winter's fire ? Must sooty raft-
Ws, a sorry truckle-bed, and a mud-encumbered alley, be
Bay nuptial lot ?

Out upon thee, thou egregious painter ! Well for thee
thou art not within my arm's length. I should certainly
bestow upon thee a hearty — kiss or two. My blunder-
ing pen ! I recall the word. I meant cuff; but my saucy
pen, pretending to know more of my mind than I did my-
self, turned (as its mistress, mayhap, would have done,
hadst thou been near me, indeed) her cuff into a Mss.

What possessed thee, my beloved, to predict so rue-
fully ? A very good beginning too ! more vivacity than
common! But I hardly had time to greet the sunny
radiance — 'tis a long time since my cell was gilded by so

JANE TALBOT. Ill

Bweet a beam — when a hlacl!: usurping mist stole it away,
and all was dreary as it is wont to be.

Perhaps thy being in a house of mourning may account
for it. Fitful and versatile I know thee to be ; change-
able with scene and circumstance. Thy views are just
what any eloquent companion pleases to make them.
She thou lovest is thy deity ; her lips thy oracle. And
hence my cheerful omens of the future; the confidence
I have in the wholesome efiBcacy of my government. I,
that have the will to make thee happy, have the power
too. I know I have ; and hence my promptitude to give
away all for thy sake ; to give myself a wife's title to
thy company, a conjugal share in thy concerns, and
claim to reign over thee.

Make haste, and atone, by the future brightness of
thy epistolary emanations, for the pitchy cloud that over-
spreads these sick man's dreams.

How must thou have rummaged the cupboard of thy
fancy for musty scraps and flinty crusts to feed thy spleen
withal, — inattentive to the dainties which a blue-eyed
Hebe had culled in the garden of Hope, and had poured
from out her basket into thy ungrateful lap.

While thou wast mumbling these refractory and un-
savoury bits, I was banqueting on the rosy and delicious
products of that Eden which love, when not scared away
by evil omens, is always sure (the poet says) to plant
around us. I have tasted nectarines of her raising,
and I find her, let me tell thee, an admirable horticul-
turist.

Thou art so far oiF, there is no sending thee a basket-
ful, or I would do it. "They would wilt and wither ere
they reached thee ; the atmosphere thou breathest would
strike a deadly worm into their hearts before thou couldst
get them to thy lips.

But to drop the basket and the bough, and take
up a plain meaning : — I will tell thee how I was em-
ployed when thy letter came ; but first I must go back
a little.

In the autumn of ninety-seven, and when death had
spent his shafts in my own family, I went to see how a
family fared, the father and husband of which kept a

112 JANE TALBOT.

shop in Front Street, -where every thing a lady wanted
was sold, and where I had always been served with great
despatch and affability.

Being one day (I am going to tell you how our acquaint-
ance began) — being one day detained in the shop by a
shower, I was requested to walk into the parlour. I
chatted ten minutes with the good woman of the house,
and found in her so much gentleness and good sense, that
afterwards my shopping visits were always, in part, social
ones. My business being finished at the counter, I usually
went back, and found on every interview new cause for
esteeming the family. The treatment I met with was
always cordial and frank ; and, though our meetings
were thus merely casual, we seemed, in a short time, to
have grown into a perfect knowledge of each other.

This was in the summer you left us, and, the malady
breaking out a few months after, and all sJiopping being
at an end, and alarm and grief taking early possession
of my heart, I thought but seldom of the Hennings. A
few weeks after death had bereaved me of my friend, I
called these, and others whose welfare was dear to me,
to my remembrance, and determined to pay them a visit
and discover how it fared with them. I hoped they had
left the city ; yet Mrs. Henning had told me that her
husband, who was a devout man, held it criminal to fly
on such occasions, and that she, having passed safely
through the pestilence of former years, had no appre-
hensions from staying.

Their house was inhabited, but I found the good woman
in great affliction. Her husband had lately died, after a
tedious illness, and her distress was augmented by the soli-
tude in which the flight of all her neighbours and acquaint-
ances had left her. A friendly visit could at no time have
been so acceptable to her, and my sympathy was not more
needed to console her than my counsel to assist her in the
new state of her affairs.

Laying aside ceremony, I inquired freely into her con-
dition, and offered her my poor services. She made me
fully acquainted with her circumstances, and I was highly
pleased at finding them so good. Her husband had al-
ways been industrious and thrifty, and his death left her

JANE TALBOT. II3

enough to support her and her Sally in the way they
■wished.

Inquiring into their views and wishes, I found them
limited to the privacy of a small but neat house in some
cleanly and retired corner of the city. Their stock in trade
I advised them to convert into money, and, placing it in
some public fund, live upon its produce. Mrs. Henning
knew nothing of the world. Though an excellent manager
within-doors, any thing that might be called business was
strange and arduous to her, and without my direct assist-
ance she could do nothing.

Happily, at this time, just such a cheap and humble,
but neat, new, and airy dwelling as my friend required,
belonging to Mrs. Fielder, was vacant. You know the
house. 'Tis that where the Frenchman Catineau lived.
Is it not a charming abode ? — at a distance from noise,
with a green field opposite and a garden behind ; of two
stories ; a couple of good rooms on each floor ; with un-
spoiled water, and a kitchen, below the ground indeed, but
light, wholesome, and warm.

Most fortunately, too, that incorrigible Creole had de-
serted it. He was scared away by the fever, and no other
had put in a claim. I made haste to write to my mo-
ther, who, though angry with me on my own account,
could not reject my application in favour of my good
widow.

I even prevailed on her to set the rent forty dollars
lower than she might have gotten from another, and to
give a lease of it at that rate for five years. You can't
imagine my satisfaction in completing this afiair, and in
seeing my good woman quietly settled in her new abode,
with her daughter Sally and her servant Alice, who had
come with her from Europe, and had lived with her the
dear knows how long.

Mrs. Henning is no common woman, I assure you.
Her temper is the sweetest in the world. Not cultivated
or enlightened is her understanding, but naturally correct.
Her life has always been spent under her own roof; and
never saw I a scene of more quiet and order than her
little homestead exhibits. Though humbly born, and per-
haps meanly brought up, her parlour and chamber add to
8

114 JANE TALBOT.

tHe purest cleanliness somewhat that approaches to ele-
gance.

The mistress and the maid are nearly of the same
age, and, though equally innocent and good-humoured, the
former has more sedateness and reserve than the latter.
She is devout in her way, which is Methodism, and
acquires from this source nothing but new motives of
charity to her neighbours and thankfulness to God.

Much — indeed, all — of these comforts she ascribes to
me ; yet her gratitude is not loquacious. It shows itself
less in words than in the pleasure she manifests on my
visits; the confidence with which she treats me; laying
before me all her plans and arrangements, and entreating
my advice in every thing. Yet she has brought with her,
from her native country, notions of her inferiority to the
better-born and the better-educated but too soothing to
my pride. Hence she is always diffident, and never
makes advances to intimacy but when expressly invited
and encouraged.

It was a good while before all her new arrangements
were completed. When they were, I told her I would
spend the day with her, for which she was extremely
grateful. She sent me word as soon as she was ready
to receive me, and I went.

Artless and unceremonious was the good woman in the
midst of all her anxiety to please. Afi'ectionate yet dis-
creet in her behaviour to her Sally and her Alice, and
of me as tenderly observant as possible.

She showed me all her rooms, from cellar to garret,
and every thing I saw delighted me. Two neat beds in
the front-room above belong to her and Sally. The back-
room is decked in a more fanciful and costly manner.

"Why, this, my good friend," said I, on entering it,
"is quite superb. Here is carpet and coverlet and cur-
tains that might satisfy a prince : you are quite prodigal.
And for whose accommodation is all this ?"

" Oh, any lady that will favour me with a visit. It is
a spare room, and the only one I have, and I thought I
would launch out a little for once. One wishes to set
the best they have before a guest, — though, indeed, I
don't expect many to visit me ; but it is some comfort to

JANE TALBOT. II5

think one has it in one's power to lodge a friend, -when
it happens so, in a manner that may not discredit one's
intentions. I have no relations in this country, and the
only friend I have in the world, besides God, is you,
madam. But still, it may sometimes happen, you know,
that one may have occasion to entertain somebody. God
be thanked, I have enough, and what little I have to
spare I have no right to hoard up."

"But might you not accommodate a good quiet kind
of body in this room, at so much a year or week ?"

"Why, ma'am, if you think that's best; but I thought
one might indulge one's self in living one's own way. I
have never been used to strangers, and always have had
a small family. It would be a very new thing to me to
have an inmate. I am afraid I should not please such a
one. And then, ma'am, if this room's occupied, I have
no decent place to put any accidental person in. It would
go hard with me to be obliged to turn a good body away,
that might be here on a visit, and might be caught by a
rain or a snow storm."

" Very true ; I did not think of that. And yet it seems
a pity that so good a room should be unemployed, perhaps
for a year together."

"So it does, ma'am; and I can't but say, if a proper
person should offer, who wanted to be snug and quiet, I
should have no great objection. One that could put up
with our humble ways, and be satisfied with what I could
do to make them comfortable. I think I should like such
a one well enough."

"One," said I, "who would accept such accommoda-
tion as a favour. A single person, for example. A
woman; a young woman. A stranger in the country,
and friendless like yourself."

"Oh, very true, madam," said the good woman, with
sparkling benignity; "I should have no objection in the
world to such a one. I should like it of all things. And
I should not mind to be hard with such a one. I should
not stickle about terms. Pray, ma'am, do you know any
such ? If you do, and will advise me to take her, I would
be very glad to do it."

Now, Hal, what thinkest thou? Cannot I light on

Il6 JANE TALBOT.

such a young, single, slenderly-provided woman as this?
One whose heart pants for just such a snug retreat as
Mrs. Henning's roof would aiford her ?

This little chamber, set out with perfect neatness;
looking out on a very pretty piece of verdure and a
cleanly court-yard ; with such a good couple to provide
for her ; with her privacy unapproachable but at her own
pleasure ; her quiet undisturbed by a prater, a scolder, a
bustler, or a whiner ; no dirty children to offend the eye,
or squalling ones to wound the ear ; with admitted claims
to the gratitude, confidence, and affection of her hostess :
might not these suffice to make a lowly, unambitious
maiden happy ?

One who, like Mrs. Henning, had only one friend upon
earth. Whom her former associates refused to commune
with or look upon. Whose loneliness was uncheered, ex-
cept by her own thoughts and her books, — perhaps now
and then, at times when oceans did not sever her from
him, by that one earthly friend.

Might she not afford him as many hours of her society
as his engagements would allow him to claim ? Might
she not, as an extraordinary favour, admit him to partake
with her the comforts of her own little fire, if winter it
be, or, in summer-time, to join her at her chamber-win-
dow and pass away the starlight hour in the unwitnessed
community of fond hearts ?

Suppose, to obviate unwelcome surmises and too
scrupulous objections, the girl makes herself a wife, but,
because their poverty will not enable them to live together,
the girl merely admits the chosen youth on the footing
of a visitor ?

Suppose her hours are not embittered by the feelings
of dependence ? She pays an ample compensation for
her entertainment, and by her occasional company, her
superior strength of mind and knowledge of the world's
ways, she materially contributes to the happiness and
safety of her hostess.

Suppose, having only one visitor, and he sometimes
wanting in zeal and punctuality, much of her time is
spent alone ? Happily she is exempt from the humili-
ating necessity of working to live, and is not obliged to

JAA'E TALBOT. WJ

demand a share of the earnings of her husband. Her
task, therefore, will be to find amusement. Can she
want the means, thinkest thou?

The sweet quiet of her chamber, the wholesome airs
from abroad, or the cheerful blaze of her hearth, will
invite her to mental exercise. Perhaps she has a taste
for books, and, besides that pure delight which know-
ledge on its own account affords her, it possesses tenfold
attractions in her eyes, by its tendency to heighten the
esteem of him whom she lives to please.

Perhaps, rich as she is in books, she is an economist
of pleasure, and tears herself away from them, to enjoy
the vernal breezes, or the landscape of autumn, in a
twilight ramble. Here she communes with bounteous
nature, or lifts her soul in devotion to her God, to whose
benignity she resigns herself as she used to do to the
fond arms of that parent she has lost.

If these do not sufiice to fill up her time, she may
chance to reflect on the many ways in which she may be
useful to herself. She may find delight in supplying her
own wants; by maintaining cleanliness and order all
about her ; by making up her own dresses, — especially
as she disdains to be outdone in taste and expertness at
the needle by any female in the land.

By limiting in this way, and in every other which her
judgment may recommend, her own expenses, she will
be able to contribute somewhat to relieve the toils of her
beloved. The pleasure will be hers of reflecting, not
only that her love adds nothing to his fatigues and cares ;
not only that her tender solicitudes and seasonable counsel
cherish his hopes and strengthen his courage, but that
the employment of her hands makes his own separate
subsistence an easier task. To work for herself will
be no trivial gratification to her honest pride, but to
work for her beloved will, indeed, be a cause of exulta-
tion.

Twenty things she may do for him which others must
be paid for doing, not in caresses, but in money; and
this service, though not small, is not perhaps the greatest
she is able to perform. She is active and intelligent,
perhaps, and may even aspire to the profits of some

Il8 JANE TALBOT.

trade. What is it that makes one calling more lucrative
than another? Not superior strength of shoulders or
sleight of hand ; not the greater quantity of brute matter
that is reduced into form or set into motion. No. The
difference lies in the mental powers of the artist, and the
direction accidentally given to these powers.

What should hinder a girl like this from growing rich
by her diligence and ingenuity? She has, perhaps, ac-
quired many arts with no view but her own amusement.
Not a little did her mother pay to those who taught her
to draw and to sing. May she not levy the same tributes
upon others that were levied on her, and make a business
of her sports ?

There is, indeed, a calling that may divert her from the
thoughts of mere lucre. She may talk and sing for an-
other, and dedicate her best hours to a tutelage for which
there is a more precious requital than money can give.

Dost not see her, Hal ? I do, — as well as this gush-
ing sensibility will let me, — rocking in her arms and
half stifling with her kisses, or delighting with her lul-
laby, a precious little creature

W^hy, my friend, do I hesitate ? Do I not write for
thy eye, and thine only ? and what is there but pure and
sacred in the anticipated transports of a mother ?

The conscious heart might stifle its throbs in thy
presence ; but why not indulge them in thy absence, and
tell thee its inmost breathings, not without a shame-
confessing glow, yet not without drops of the truest
delight that were ever shed ?

Why, how now, Jane ? whence all this interest in the
scene thou portrayest ? One would fancy that this happy
outcast, this self-dependent wife, was no other than
thyself.

A shrewd conjecture, truly. I suppose, Hal, thou
wilt be fond enough to guess so, too. By what penalty
shall I deter thee from so rash a thing? yet thou art
not here — I say it to my sorrow — to suffer the penalty
which I might choose to inflict.

I will not say what it is, lest the fear of it should
keep thee away.

JANE TALBOT. II9

And, now that I have finished the history of Mrs.
Hennmg and her boarder, I will bid thee — good-night.

Good ^good-night, my love.

Jane Talbot.

LETTER XXXI.

To Henry Colden.

Philadelphia, Noyembsr 11.

How shall I tell you the strange — strange incident?
Every fibre of my frame still trembles. I have endea-
voured, during the last hour, to gain tranquillity enough
for writing, but without success. Yet I can forbear no
longer: I must begin.

I had just closed my last to you, when somebody
knocked. I heard footsteps below, as the girl ushered
in the visitant, which were not quite unknown to me.
The girl came up: — "A gentleman is waiting."

"A gentleman!" thought I. "An odd hour this" (it
was past ten) "for any man but one to visit me. His
business must be very urgent." So, indeed, he told the
girl it was, for she knew me averse to company at any
time, and I had withdrawn to my chamber for the night ;
but he would not be eluded. He must see me, he said,
this night.

A tall and noble figure, in a foreign uniform, arose
from the sofa at my entrance. The half:e»tiactJa45p on
the mantel could not conceal from me-Q]m-brotherJ'

My surprise almost overpowered me. 1 should have
sunk upon the floor, had he not stepped to me and sus-
tained me in his arms.

"I see you are surprised, Jane," said he, in a tone
not without affection in it. "You did not expect, I sup-
pose, ever to see me again. It was a mere chance brought
me to America. I shall stay here a moment, and then
hie me back again. I could not pass through the city
without a ' How d'ye' to the little girl for whom I have
still some regard."

The violence of my emotions found relief in a flood

I20 JANE TALBOT.

of tears. He was not unmoved, but, embracing me with
tenderness, lie seated me by him on the sofa.

When I had leisure to survey his features, I found
that time had rather improved his looks. They were
less austere, less contemptuous, than they used to be :
perhaps, indeed, it was only a momentary remission of
his customary feelings.

To my rapid and half-coherent questions, he replied,
"I landed — you need not know where. My commission
requires secrecy, and you know I have personal reasons
for wishing to pass through this city without notice.
My business did not bring mo farther southward than
New London; but I heard your mother resided in New
York, and could not leave the country without seeing
you. I called on her yesterday; but she looked so grave
and talked so obscurely about you, that I could not do
less than come hither. She told me you were here.
How have been affairs since I left you ?"

I answered this question vaguely.

"Pray," (with much earnestness,) "are you married
yet?"

The confusion with which I returned an answer to this
did not escape him.

"I asked Mrs. Fielder the same question, and she
talked as if it were a doubtful point. She could not
toll, she said, with a rueful physiognomy. Very pro-
bable it might be so. I could not bring her to be more
explicit. As I proposed to see you, she said, you were
the fittest person to explain your own situation. This
made me the more anxious to see you. Pray, Jane, how
do matters stand between you and Mrs. Fielder ? are you
not on as good terms as formerly?"

I answered, that some difference had unhappily occurred
between us, that I loved and revered her as much as ever,
and hoped that we should soon be mother and daughter
again.

"But the cause? — the cause, Jane? Is a lover the
bone of contention between you? That's the rock on
which family harmony is sure to be wrecked. But tell
me : what have you quarrelled about?"

How could I explain on such a subject, thus abruptly

JANE TALBOT. 121

introduced to Mm ? I told him it was equally painful
and useless to dwell on my contentions with my mother,
or on my own affairs. "Rather let me hear," said I,
" how it fares with you ; what fortunes you have met with
in this long absence."

"Pretty well; pretty well. Many a jade's trick did
Fortune play me before I left this spot, but ever since, it
has been all smooth and bright with me. But this mar-
riage — Art thou a wife or not ? I heard, I think, some
talk about a Talbot. What's become of him ? They said
you were engaged to him."

" It is long since the common destiny has ended all
Talbot's engagements."

" Dead, is he ? Well, a new aspirer, I suppose, has suc-
ceeded, and he is the bone of contention. Who's he ?"

I could not bear that a subject of such deep concern to
me should be discussed thus lightly, and therefore begged
him to change the subject.

" Change the subject? With all my heart, if we can
find any more important ; but that's impossible. So we
must even stick to this a little longer. Come ; what's his
parentage; fortune; age; character; profession? 'Tis
not likely I shall find fault where Mrs. Fielder does.
Young men and old women seldom hit upon the same
choice in a husband; and, for my part, I am easily
pleased."

" This is a subject, brother, on which it is impossible
that we should think alike ; nor is it necessary. Let us
then talk of something in which we have a common con-
cern; something that has a claim to interest you."

"What subject, girl, can have a stronger claim on my
attention than the marriage of my sister? I am not so
giddy and unprincipled as to be unconcerned on that head.
So make no more ado, but tell your brother candidly ivhat
are your prospects."

After some hesitation, — " My real brother — one who
had the tenderness becoming that relation — would cer-
tainly deserve my confidence. But "

" But what ? Come ; never mince the matter. I have
scarcely been half a brother hitherto, I grant you. More
of an enemy, perhaps, than friend ; but no reason why

122 JANE TALBOT.

I should continue hostile or indifferent. So tell me who
the lad is, and what are his pretensions."

I endeavoured to draw him off to some other subject,
but he would not be diverted from this. By dint of in-
terrogatories, he at last extorted from me a few hints re-
specting you. Finding that you were without fortune or
profession, and that my regard for you had forfeited all
favour with my mother, the inquiry was obvious, how we
meant to live. It was impossible to answer this question
in any manner satisfactory to him. He has no notion of
existence unconnected with luxury and splendour.

" Have you made any acquisitions," continued he,
" since I saw you ? Has any good old aunt left you
another legacy?" — This was said with the utmost vivacity
and self-possession. A strange being is my brother.
Could he have forgotten by whom I was robbed of my
former legacy ?

" Come, come ; I know thou art a romantic being, —
one accustomed to feed on thoughts instead of pudding.
Contentment and a cottage are roast beef and a palace
to thee ; but take my word for it, this inamorata of thine
will need a more substantial diet. By marrying him you
will only saddle him with misery. So drop all thoughts
of so silly a scheme; write him a 'good-by;' make up
your little matters, and come along with me. I will take
you to my country, introduce you to a new world, and
bring to your feet hundreds of generous souls, the least
of whom is richer, wiser, handsomer, than this tame-
spirited, droning animal — what's his name? But no
matter. I suppose I know nothing of him."

I was rash enough to tell him j'our name and abode, but
I treated his proposal as a jest. I quickly found that he
was serious. He soon became extremely urgent; re-
counted the advantages of his condition ; the charming
qualities of his wife; the security and splendour of his
new rank. He endeavoured to seduce my vanity by the
prospect of the conquest I should make in that army
of colonels, philosophers, and commissioners that formed
the circle of his friends. "Any man but a brother," said
he, " must own that you are a charming creature. So
you need only come and see, in order to conquer."

JANE TALBOT. 1 23

His importunities increased as my reluctance became
more evident. Thoughtless as I supposed him to be, he
said, the wish to find me out, carry me to France, and
put me in Fortune's way, was no inconsiderable induce-
ment with him to accept the commission which brought
him to America. He insinuated that brothership and
eldership gave him something like a title to paternal au-
thority, and insisted on obedience.

The contest became painful. Impatience and reproach
on his side awakened the like sentiments in me, and it cost
me many efi"orts to restrain my feelings. Alternately he
commanded and persuaded ; was willing to be governed by
my mother's advice ; would carry me forthwith to New
York ; would lay before her his proposal, and be governed
by her decision. The public vessel that brought him lay
at Newport, waiting his return. Every possible accommo-
dation and convenience was possessed by the ship. It
was nothing but a sailing palace, in which the other pas-
sengers were merely his guests, selected by himself.

I was a fool for refusing his offer. A simpleton. The
child of caprice, whom no time could render steadfast ex-
cept in folly ; into whom no counsel or example could
instil an atom of common sense. He supposed my man
was equally obstinate and stupid ; but he would soon see
of what stuff he was made. He would hurry to Balti-
more, and take the boy to task for his presumption and
insolence in aspiring to Jane Talbot without her brother's
consent.

He snatched up his hat ; but this intimation alarmed
me " Pray, stay one moment, brother. Be more con-
siderate. What right can you possibly have to interfere
with Mr. Colden's concerns ? Talk to me as much and
in what style you please ; but, I beseech you, insult not
a man who never offended you."

Perceiving my uneasiness on this head, he took advan-
tage of it to renew his solicitations for my company to
France, — swore solemnly that no man should have his
sister without his consent, and that he would force the
boy to give me up.

This distressing altercation ended by his going away,
declaring, in spite of my entreaties, that he would see

124 JANE TALBOT.

you, and teacli your insolence a lesson not easily for-
gotten.

To sleep after this interview was impossible. I could
hardly still my throbbing heart sufficiently to move the
pen. You cannot hear from me in time to avoid this mad-
man, or to fortify yourself against an interview. I can-
not confute the false or cunning glosses he may make upon
my conduct. He may represent me to you as willing to
accompany him ; as detained only by my obligation to you,
from which it is in your power to absolve me.

Till I hear from you I shall have no peace. Would to
Heaven there was some speedier conveyance !

Jane Talbot.

LETTER XXXII.

To Jane Talbot.

Baltimore, November 14.

Let me overlook your last *letter for the present,
while I mention to you a most unexpected and surprising
circumstance. It has just happened. I have parted
with my visitant but this moment.

I had strolled to the bank of the river, and was lean-
ing idly on a branch of an apple-tree that hung pretty
low, when I noticed some one coming hastily towards me :
there was something striking and noble in the air and
figure of the man.

When he came up, he stopped. I was surprised to
find myself the object of which he was in search. I found
afterwards that he had inquired for me at my lodgings,
and had been directed'tcn^ok for me in this path. A dis-
tinct view of his fKitures saved him the trouble of telling
me that he was yom;_brotli&iv However, that was informa-
tion that he thottght proper immediately to communicate.
He was your brother, he said ; I was Golden ; I had pre-
tensions to you, which your brother was entitled to know,
to discuss, and to pronounce upon. Such, in about as

* Letter XXX.

JANE TALBOT. 125

many words, was his introduction to me, and he waited
for my answer with much impatience.

I was greatly confused by these sudden and uncere-
monious intimations. At last I told him that all that he
had said respecting my connection with his sister was
true. It was a fact that all the world was welcome to
know. Of course I had no objection to her brother's
knowing it.

But what were my claims? what my merits, my pro-
fession, my fortune ? On all these heads a brother would
naturally require to be thoroughly informed.

"As to my character, sir, you will hardly expect any
satisfactory information from my own mouth. However,
it may save you the trouble of applying to others, when
I tell you that my character has as many slurs and blots
in it as any you ever met with. A more versatile, in-
consistent, prejudiced, and faulty person than myself, I
do not believe the earth to contain. Profession I have
none, and am not acquiring any, nor expect ever to
acquu-e. Of fortune I am wholly destitute: not a
farthing have I, either in possession or reversion."

" Then, pray, sir, on what are built your pretensions
to my sister?"

"Really, sir, they are built on nothing. I am, in
every respect, immeasurably her inferior. I possess not
a single merit that entitles me to grace from her."

"I have surely not been misinformed. She tacitly
admitted that she was engaged to be your wife."

"'Tis very true. She is so."

"But what, then, is the basis of this engagement?"

" Mutual affection, I believe, is the only basis. Nobody
who knows Jane Talbot will need to ask why she is be-
loved. Why she requites that passion in the present
case, is a question which she only can answer."

"Her passion, sir," (contemptuously,) "is the freak
of a child ; of folly and caprice. By your own confession
you are beggarly and worthless, and therefore it becomes
you to relinquish your claim."

"I have no claim to relinquish. I have urged no
claims. On the contrary, I have fully disclosed to her
every folly and vice that cleaves to my character."

126 JANE TALBOT.

"You know, sir, what I mean."

" I am afraid not perfectly. If you mean that I should
profess myself unworthy of your sister's favour, 'tis done.
It has been done a hundred times."

"My meaning, sir, is simply this: that you, from this
moment, give up every expectation of being the husband
of Mrs. Talbot. That you return to her every letter and
paper that has passed between you; that you drop all
intercourse and correspondence."

I was obliged to stifle a laugh which this whimsical
proposal excited. I continued, through this whole dia-
logue, to regard my companion with a steadfast and
cheerful gravity.

"These are injunctions," said I, "that will hardly
meet with compliance, unless, indeed, they were imposed
by the lady herself. I shall always have a supreme re-
gard for her happiness ; and whatever path she points
out to me, I will walk in it."

" But this is the path in which her true interest re-
quires you to walk."

"I have not yet discovered that to be her opinion;
the moment I do, I will walk in it accordingly."

"No matter what her opinion is. She is froward and
obstinate. It is my opinion that her true happiness re-
quires all connection between you to cease from this
moment."

"After all, sir, though, where judgments diifer, one
only can be right, yet each person must be permitted to
follow his own. You would hardly, I imagine, allow your
sister to prescribe to you in your marriage choice, and I
fear she will lay claim to the same independence for her-
self. If you can convert her to your way of thinking,
it is well. I solemnly engage to do whatever she directs."

" This is insolence. You trifle with me. You pretend
to misconstrue my meaning."

"When you charge me with insolence, I think you
afford pretty strong proof that you mistake my mean-
ing. I have not the least intention to offend you."

"Let me be explicit with you. Do you instantly and
absolutely resign all pretensions to my sister?"

" I will endeavour to be explicit in my turn. Your

JANE TALBOT. 12/

Bister, notwithstanding my defects and disadvantages,
offers me her love, vows to be mine. I accept her love ;
she is mine; nor need we to discuss the matter any fur-
ther."

This, however, by no means put an end to altercation.
I told him I was willing to hear all that he had to say
upon the subject. If truth were on his side, it was possi-
ble he might reason me into a concurrence with him. In
compliance with this concession, he dwelt on the benefits
which his sister would receive from accompanying him to
France, and the mutual sorrow, debasement, and per-
plexity likely to flow from a union between us, unsanctioned
by the approbation of our common friends.

"The purpose of all this is to prove," said I, "that
affluence and dignity without me will be more conducive
to your sister's happiness than obscurity and indigence
with me."

It was.

"Happiness is mere matter of opinion; perhaps Jane
thinks already as you do."

He allowed that he had talked with you ineffectually
on that subject.

"I think myself bound to believe her in a case where
she is the proper judge, and shall eagerly consent to make
her happy in her own way. 2%af, sir, is my decision."

I will not repeat the rest of our conversation. Your
letters have given me some knowledge of your brother,
and I endeavoured by the mildness, sedateness, and
firmness of my carriage to elude those extremes to
which his domineering passions were likely to carry him.
I carefully avoided every thing that tended in the least
to exasperate. He was prone enough to rage, but I
quietly submitted to all that he could my. I was sincerely
rejoiced when the conference came to an end.

Whence came your brother thus abruptly ? Have you
seen him ? Yet he told me that you had. Alas ! what
must you have suffered from his impetuosity !

I look with impatience for your next letter, in which
you will tell what has happened.

128 JANE TALBOT.

LETTER XXXIII.

To Henry Colden.

Philadelphia, November 17.

I HAVE just sent you a letter, but my restless spirit
can find no relief but in writing.

I torment myself without end in imagining what took
place at your meeting with my brother. I rely upon
your equanimity ; yet to what an insupportable test will
my brother's passions subject you ! In how many ways
have I been the cause of pain and humiliation to you!
Heaven, I hope, will some time grant me the power to
compensate you for all that I have culpably or innocently
made you suffer.

What's this ? A letter from my brother ! The super-
scription ia his.

Let me hasten, my friend, to give you a copy of this
strange epistle. It has neither date nor signature.

"I have talked with the man whom you have chosen
to play the fool with. I find him worthy of his mistress ;
a tame, coward-hearted, infatuated blockhead.

"It was silly to imagine that any arguments would
have weight with you or with him. I have got my jour-
ney for my pains. Fain would I have believed that you
were worthy of a difierent situation ; but I dismiss that
belief, and shall henceforth leave you to pursue your own
dirty road, without interruption.

"Had you opened your eyes to your true interest, I
think I could have made something of you. My wealth
and my influence should not have been spared in placing
you in a station worthy of my sister. Every one, how-
ever, must take his own way, — though it lead him into a
slough or a ditch.

"I intended to have virtually divided my fortune with
you ; to have raised you to princely grandeur. But no ;
you are enamoured of the dirt, and may cling to it as
closely as you please.

•'It is but justice, however, to pay what I owe you.

JANE TALBOT. 1 29

I remember I borrowed several sums of you ; the whole
amounted to fifteen hundred dollars. There they are,
and much good may they do you. That sum and the
remnant which I left you may perhaps set the good man
up in a village shop, — may purchase an assortment of
tapes, porringers, and twelve-to-the-pound candles. The
gleanings of the year may find you in skimmed milk and
hasty pudding three times a day, and you may enjoy
between whiles the delectable amusements of mending
your husband's stockings at one time, and serving a
neighbour with a pennyworth of snufi" at another.

" Fare thee well, Jane. Farewell forever ; for it must
be a stronger inducement than can possibly happen, that
shall ever bring me back to this land. I would see you
ere I go, but we shall only scold; so, once more, fare-
well, simpleton."

What think you of this letter? The enclosed bills
were most unexpected and acceptable presents. I am
now twice as rich as I was. This visit of my brother
I was disposed to regret, but on the whole I ought, I
think, to regard it with satisfaction. By thus completely
repairing the breach made in my little patrimony, it has
placed me in as good a situation as I ever hoped to en-
joy ; besides, it has removed from my brother's character
some of the stains which used to discolour it. Ought I
not to believe him sincere in his wishes to do me service ?
We cannot agree exactly in our notion of duty or happi-
ness, but that difference takes not away from him the
merit of a generous intention. He would have done me
good in his way.

Methinks I am sorry he is gone. I would fain have
parted with him as a sister ought. A few tears and a
few blessings were not unworthy such an occasion. Most
fervently should I have poured my blessings upon him.
T wish he had indulged me with another visit ; especially
as we were to part, it seems, forever. One more visit
and a kind embrace from my only brother would have
been kept in melancholy, sweet remembrance.

Perhaps we shall meet again. Perhaps, some day,
thou and I shall go to France. We will visit him to-
gether, and witness, with our own eyes, his good fortune.
9

130 JANE TALBOT.

Time may make him gentle, kind, considerate, brotherly.
Time has effected greater wonders than that; for I will
always maintain that my brother has a noble nature :
stifled and obscured it may be, but not extinguished.

LETTER XXXIV.
To Henry Colden.

Philadelphia, NoTember 18.

How little is the equanimity or patience that nature
has allotted me ! Thy entrance now would find me quite
peevish. Yet I do not fear thy entrance. Always anx-
ious as I am to be amiable in your eyes, I am at no pains
to conceal from you that impatience which now vexes
my soul, because it is your absence that occasions it.

I sat alone on the sofa below, for a whole hour. Not
once was the bell rung ; not once did my fluttering heart
answer to footsteps in the passage. I had no need to
start up at the opening of the parlour-door, and to greet,
as distinctly as the joyous tumult of my bosom would
suffer me, the much-loved, long-expected visitant.

Yet, deceived by my fond heart into momentary for-
getfulncss of the interval of a hundred miles that lies
between us, more than once I cast a glance behind me,
and started, as if the hoped-for peal had actually been
rung.

Tired, at length, of my solitude, where I had enjoyed
your company so often, I covered up the coals and with-
drew to my chamber. "And here,"' said I, "though I
cannot talk to him, yet I can write."

But first, I read over again this cruel letter of my
mother. I weighed all the contents, and especially those
heavy charges against you.

How does it fall out that the same object is viewed by
two observers with such opposite sensations ? That what
one hates, the other should dote upon ? — two of the same
sex ; one cherished from infancy, reared, modelled,
taught to think, feel, and even to speak, by the other:
acting till now, and even now acting in all respects

JANE TALBOT. 131

but one, in inviolable harmony ; that two sucb sliould jar
and thwart each other, in a point, too, in respect to
which the whole tendency and scope of the daughter's
education was to produce a fellow-feeling with the mother.
How hard to be accounted for ! how deeply to be rued !

I sometimes catch myself trembling with solicitude
lest I should have erred. Am I not betrayed by pas-
sion ? can I claim the respect due to that discernment
which I once boasted ?

I cannot blame my mother. She acts and determines,
as I sometimes believe, without the benefits of my know-
ledge. Did she know as much as I know, surely she
■would think as I do.

In general, this conclusion seems to be just ; but there
are moments when doubts insinuate themselves. I can-
not help remembering the time when I reasoned like my
mother ; when the belief of a Christian seemed essential
to every human excellence. All qualities, without that
belief, were not to be despised as useless, but to be ab-
horred as pernicious. There would be no virtue, no
merit, divorced from religion. In proportion to the spe-
ciousness of his qualities was he to be dreaded. The
fruit, whatever form it should assume, was nothing
within but bane, and was to be detested and shunned in
proportion as the form was fair and its promises de-
licious.

I seldom trusted myself to inquire how it was my duty
to act towards one whom I loved, but who was destitute
of this grace ; for of such moment was the question to
me, that I imagined the decision would necessarily pre-
cede all others. I could not love till I had investigated
this point, and no force could oblige me to hold com-
munion with a soul whom this defect despoiled of all
beauty and devoted to perdition.

But what now is the change that time and passion
have wrought ! I have found a man without religion.
What I supposed impossible has happened. I love the
man. I cannot give him up. The mist that is before
my eyes does not change what was once vice into virtue.
I do not cease to regard unbelief as the black-est stain,
as the most deplorable calamity that can befall a human

132 JANE TALBOT.

creature ; but still I love the man, and that fills me with
unconquerable zeal to rescue him from this calamity.

But my mother interferes. She reminds me of the
horror which I once entertained for men of your tenets.
She enjoins me to hate you, or to abhor myself for loving
one worthy of nothing but hatred.

I cannot do either. My heart is still yours, and it is
a voluntary captive. I would not free it from its thral-
dom, if I could. Neither do I think its captivity dis-
honours it. Time, therefore, has wrought some change.
I can now discover some merit, something to revere and
to love, even in a. man without religion. I find my whole
soul penetrated with zeal for his welfare. There is no
scheme which I muse upon with half the constancy or
pleasure, as that of curing his errors; and I am con-
fident of curing them.

"Ah, Jane," says my mother; "rash and presump-
tuous girl, what a signal punishment hangs over thee !
Thou wilt trust thyself within the toils of the grand
deceiver. Thou wilt enter the list with his subtleties.
Vain and arrogant, thou fearest not thy own weakness.
Thou wilt stake thy eternal lot upon thy triumph in
argument against one who, in spite of all his candour
and humility, has his pride and his passions engaged on
the side of his opinions.

"Subtle wretch!" does she exclaim; "accomplished
villain ! How nicely does he select, how adroitly ma-
nage, his tools ! He will oppose, only to yield more
gracefully. He will argue, only that the rash simpleton
may the more congratulate herself upon her seeming
victory ! How easy is the verbal assent, — the equivo-
cating accent, — the hesitating air ! These he will as-
sume whenever it is convenient to lull your fears and
gratify your vanity ; and nothing but the uniformity of
bis conduct, his continuance in the same ignominious and
criminal path, will open your eyes, and show you that
only grace from above can reach his obdurate heart, or
dart a ray into his benighted faculties."

Will you be surprised that I shudder when my mother
urges me in this strain, with her customary energy? Al-
ways wont to be obsequious to the very turn of her eye,

JANE TALBOT. 1 33

and to make her -will not only the regulator of my actions,
but the criterion of my understanding, it ia impossible
not to hesitate, to review all that has passed between us,
and reconsider anew the motives that have made me act
as I have acted.

Yet the review always confirms me in my first opinion.
You err, but are not obstinate in error. If your opinions
be adverse to religion, your affections are not wholly es-
tranged from it. Your understanding dissents, but your
heart is not yet persuaded to refuse. You have powers,
irresistible in whatever direction they are bent ; capable
of giving the highest degree of misery or happiness to
yourself and to others. At present they are misdirected
or inactive ; they are either pernicious or useless.

How can I, who have had ample opportunities of know-
ing you, stand by with indifference while such is your
state ? I love you, it is true. All your felicity and all
your woe become mine. I have a selfish interest in your
welfare. I cannot bear the thought of passing through
this world, or of entering any future world, without you.
My heart has tried in vain to create a separate interest,
to draw consolation from a different source. Hence in-
difference to your welfare is impossible. But would not
indifference, even if no extraordinary tie subsisted be-
tween us, be criminal? What becomes of our obligation
to do good to others, if we do not exert ourselves, when
all the means are in our power, to confer the most valu-
able of all benefits, to remove the greatest of all ills ?

Of what stuff must that heart be made which can be-
hold, unmoved, genius and worth, destitute of the joys
and energies of religion ; wandering in a maze of pas-
sions and doubts ; devoured by fantastic repinings and
vague regrets ; drearily conscious of wanting a founda-
tion whereon to repose, a guide in whom to trust ? What
heart can gaze at such a spectacle without unspeakable
compassion ?

Not to have our pity and our zeal awakened seems to
me to argue the utmost depravity of heart. No stronger
proof can be given that we ourselves are destitute of true
religion. The faith or the practice must be totally want-
ing. We may talk devoutly ; we may hie, in due season,

134 JANE TALBOT.

to the house of prayer ; -while there, we may put on solemn
visages and mutter holy names. We may abstain from
profane amusements or unauthorized words ; we may shun,
as infections, the company of unbelievers. We may study
homilies and creeds ; but all this, without rational activity
for others' good, is not religion. I see, in all this, no-
thing that I am accustomed to call by that name.

I see nothing but a narrow selfishness ; sentiments of
fear degrading to the Deity ; a bigotry that contracts the
view, that freezes the heart, that shuts up the avenues to
benevolent and generous feeling. This buckram stiffness
does not suit me. Out upon such monastic parade ! I
will have none of it.

But then, it seems, there is danger to ourselves from
such attempts. In trying to save another from drowning,
may we not sometimes be drawn in ourselves? Are we
not taught to deprecate, not only evil, but temptation to
evil?

What madness, to trust our convictions, in a point of
such immense importance, to the contest of argument
with one of superior subtlety and knowledge ! Is there
not presumption in such a trust ?

Excellent advice is this to the mass of women ; to those
to whom habit or childish fear or parental authority has
given their faith ; who never doubted or inquired or rea-
soned for themselves. How easily is such a fabric to be
overturned ! It can only stand by being never blown
upon. The least breath disperses it in air ; the first tide
washes it away.

Now, I entertain no reverence for such a bubble. In
some sense, the religion of the timorous and uninquisitive
is true. In another sense it is false. Considering the
proofs on which it reposes, it is false, since it merely
originates in deference to the opinions of others, wrought
into belief by means of habit. It is on a level, as to the
proof which supports it, with the wildest dreams of sav-
age superstition, or the fumes of a dervise's fanaticism.

As to me, I was once just such a pretty fool in this
respect as the rest of my sex. I was easily taught to
regard religion not only as the safeguard of every virtue,
but even as the test of a good understanding. The name

JANE TALBOT. I35

of infidel was never mentioned but ■with abhorrence or
contempt. None but a profligate, a sensualist, a ruffian,
could disbelieve. Unbelief was a mere suggestion of the
grand deceiver, to palliate or reconcile us to the unlim-
ited indulgence of our appetites and the breach of every
moral duty. Hence it was never steadfast or sincere.
An adverse fortune or a death-bed usually put an end to
the illusion.

Thus I grew up, never beset by any doubts, never
venturing on inquiry. My knowledge of you put an end
to this state of superstitious ignorance. In you I found, j
not one that disbelieved, but one that doubted. In all i
your demeanour there was simplicity and frankness. You ]
concealed not your sentiments ; you obtruded them not
upon my hearing. Vf hen called upon to state the history
of your opinions, it was candidly detailed ; with no view
of gaining my concurrence, but merely to gratify my
curiosity.

From my remonstrances you never averted your ear.
Every proof of an unprejudiced attention, and even of a
bias favourable to my opinions, was manifest. Your own
experience had half converted you already. Your good
sense was for a time the sport of a specious theory. You
became the ardent and bold champion of what you deemed
truth. But a closer and longer view insensibly detected
flaws and discords where all had formerly been glossy
smoothness and ravishing harmony. Difiidence and cau-
tion, worthy of your youth and inexperience, had re-
sumed their place ; and those errors of which your own
experience of their consequences had furnished the anti-
dote, which your own reflections had partly divested of
illusion, had only been propitious to your advancement
in true wisdom.

What had I to fear from such an adversary ? What
might I not hope from perseverance ? What expect but
new clearness to my own convictions, new and more ac-
curate views of my powers and habits ?

In order to benefit you, I was obliged to scrutinize the
foundation of my own principles. I found nothing
but a void. I was astonished and alarmed ; and instantly
set myself to the business of inquiry. How could I hope

136 JANE TALBOT.

to work on your convictions without a suitaltle foundation
for my own ?

And see now, my friend, the blindness of our judg-
ments. I, who am imagined to incur such formidable
perils from intercourse with you, am, in truth, indebted
to you alone for all my piety, — all of it that is perma-
nent and rational. Without those apprehensions which
your example inspired, without that zeal for your con-
version which my attachment to you has produced, what
would now have been my claims to religious knowledge ?

Had I never extorted from you your doubts, and the
occasion of these doubts ; had I never known the most
powerful objections to religion from your lipa, I should
have been no less ignorant of the topics and arguments
favourable to it.

And I think I may venture to ascribe to myself no less
a progress in candour than in knowledge. My belief is
stronger than it ever was, but I no longer hold in scorn
or abhorrence those who differ from me. I perceive the
speciousness of those fallacies by which they are deluded.
I find it possible for men to disbelieve and yet retain
their claims to our reverence, our affection, and especially
our good ofiBces.

Those whom I once thought were only to be hated and
shunned, I now find worthy of compassionate efforts for
their good. Those whom I once imagined sunk beneath
the reach of all succour, and to merit scarcely the tribute
of a sigh for their lost estate, now appear to be easily
raised to tranquillity and virtue, and to have irresistible
claims to our help.

In no respect has your company made me a worse —
in every respect it has made me a better — woman. Not
only my piety has become more rational and fervent,
but a new spring has been imparted to my languishing
curiosity. To find a soul to whom my improvement will
give delight ; eager to direct and assist my inquiries ;
delicately liberal no less of censure when merited than
of praise where praise is due ; entering, almost without
the help of language from me, into my inmost thoughts ;
assisting me, if I may so speak, to comprehend myself;
and raising to a steadfast and bright flame the spark

JANE TALBOT. 1 37

that my wayward fancy, left to itself, would have instan-
taneously emitted and lost. —

But why do I again attempt this impossible theme ?
While reflecting on my debt to thee, my heart becomes
too big for its mansion. My hand falters, and the cha-
racters it traces run into an illegible scrawl.

My tongue only is fitted for such an office ; and Heaven
grant that you may speedily return to me, and put an
end to a solitude which every hour makes more irksome !

Adieu.

LETTER XXXV.
To Mrs. Talbot.

Baltimore, November 20.

How truly did my angel say, that she whom I love is
my deity, and her lips my oracle, and that to her per-
tains not only the will to make me happy, by giving me
steadfastness and virtue, but the power also !

I have read your letter oftener than a dozen times
already, and at every reading my heart burns more and
more. That weight of humiliation and despondency
which, without your arm to sustain me, would assuredly
sink me to the grave, becomes light as a feather; and,
while I crush your testimonies of love in my hand, I
seem to have hold of a stay of which no storm can be-
reave me. ^

One of my faults, thou sayest, is a propensity to reason.
Not satisfied with looking at that side of the post that
chances to be near me, I move round and round it, and
pause and scrutinize till those whose ill fate it is to wait
upon my motions are out of patience with me.

Every one has ways of his own. A transient glance
at the post satisfies the mob of passengers. 'Tis my
choice to stand a while and gaze.

The only post, indeed, which I closely examine, is my-
self, because my station is most convenient for inspecting
that. Yet, though I have a fuller view of myself than
any other can have of me, my imperfect sight — that is,
my erring judgment — is continually blundering.

138 JANE TALBOT.

If all my knowledge relate to my own character, and
ttat knowledge is egregiously defective, how profound
must be my ignorance of others, and especially of her
whom I presume to call mine !

No paradox ever puzzled me so much as your conduct.
On my first interview with you I loved you ; yet what
kind of passion was that which knew only your features
and the sound of your voice ? Every successive inter-
view has produced, not only something new or unex-
pected, but something in seeming contradiction to my
previous knowledge.

"She will act," said I, " in such and such circumstances,
as those of her delicate and indulgent education must
always act. That wit, that eloquence, that knowledge,
must only make her despise such a witless, unendowed,
unaccomplished, wavering, and feeble wretch as I am."

To be called your friend; to be your occasional com-
panion ; to be a tolerated visitor, was more than I ex-
pected. When I found all this anxiously sought and
eagerly accepted, I was lost in astonishment. At times —
may I venture to confess? — your regard for me brought
your judgment into question! It failed to inspire me
with more respect for myself; and not to look at me with
my own eyes degraded you in my opinion.

How have you laboured to bestow on me that inestimable
gift, — self-confidence ! And some success has attended
your efforts. My d'cliverance from my chains is less
desperate than once it was. I may judge of the future,
perhaps, by the past. Since I have already made such
progress in exchanging distant veneration for familiar
tenderness, and in persuading myself that he must possess
some merit whom a soul like thine idolizes, I may venture
to anticipate the time when all my humiliation may vanish,
and I shall come to "be thought worthy of thy love, not
only by thee, but by myself.

What a picture is this thou drawest ! Yet such is my
weakness, Jane, that I must shudder at the prospect. To
tear thee from thy present dwelling and its comforts, to
make thee a tenant of thy good widow, and a seamstress
for me !

"Yet what" (thou- eayest) "is a fine house, and a train

JANE TALBOT. 139

of servants, music, and pictures ? What silly prejudice,
to connect dignity and happiness with high ceilings and
damask canopies and golden superfluity!"

Yet so silly am I, when reason deserts the helm and
habit assumes it. The change thou hast painted deceives
me for a moment, or rather is rightly judged of while I
look at nothing but thy colouring ; but when I withdraw
my eye from that, and the scene rises before me in the
hues it is accustomed to derive from my own fancy,
my soul droops, and I pray Heaven to avert such a
destiny.

I tell thee all my follies, Jane. Art thou not my sweet
physician? and how canst thou cure the malady when
thou knowest not all its symptoms ?

I love to regard myself in this light: — as one owing
his virtue, his existence, his happiness, his every thing,
to thee, and as proposing no end to himself but thy
happiness in turn, but the discharge of an endless debt
of gratitude.

On my account, Jane, I cannot bear you should lose
any thing. It must not be. Yet what remedy ? How
is thy mother's aversion to be subdued? how can she be
made to reason on my actions as you reason ? Yet not
BO, either. None but she that loves me can make such
constructions and allowances as you do.

Why may she not be induced to give up the hope of
disuniting us, and, while she hates me, continue her affec-
tion for thee? Why rob thee of those bounties hitherto
dispensed to thee, merely because I must share in them ?
My partaking with thee contributes indispensably to thy
happiness. Not for my own sake, then, but merely for
thine, ought competence to be secured to thee.

But is there no method of excluding me from all parti-
cipation? She may withhold from me all power of a
landlord, but she cannot prevent me from subsisting on
thy bounty.

Yet why does she now allow you to possess what you
do ? Can she imagine that my happiness is not as dear
to you now as it will be in consequence of any change?
If I share nothing with you now, it is not from any want
of benevolent importunity in you.

140 JANE TALBOT.

There is a strange inconsistency and contradiction in
thy mother's conduct.

But something may surely be done to lighten her
antipathies. I may surely confute a false charge. I
may convince her of my innocence in one respect.

Yet see, my friend, the evils of which one error is the
parent. My conduct towards the poor Jessy appears to
your mother a more enormous wickedness than this im-
puted injustice to Talbot. The frantic indiscretion of
my correspondence with Thomson has ruined me ; for he
that will commit the greater crime will not be thought to
scruple the less.

And then there is such an irresistible crowd of evi-
dence in favour of the accusation ! \^'^hen I first read
Mrs. Fielder's letter, the consciousness of my innocence
gave me courage ; but the longer I reflect upon the sub-
ject, the more deeply I despond. My own errors will
always be powerful pleaders against me at the bar of
this austere judge.

Would to Heaven I had not yielded to your urgency !
The indecorum of compliance stared me in the face at
the time. Too easily I yielded to the enchantments of
those eyes, and the pleadings of that melting voice.

The charms of your conversation ; the midnight hour
whose security was heightened by the storm that raged
without ; so perfectly screened from every interruption ;
and the subject we had been talking on, so affecting and
attractive to me, and so far from being exhausted, and
you BO pathetically earnest in entreaty, so absolutely for-
bidding my departure.

And was I such a short-sighted fool as not to insist on
your retiring at the usual hour? The only thing that
could make the expedient suggested by me effectual was
that. Your Molly lying with you could avail you no-
thing, unless you actually passed the night in your
chamber.

As it was, no contrivance could be more unfortunate,
since it merely enabled her the more distinctly to re-
mark the hour when you came up. Was it three., or
four., when you left the parlour?

The unbosoming of souls which that night witnessed,

JANE TALBOT. I41

SO sweetly as it dwelt upon my memory, I now regard
with horror, since it has involved you in such evil.

But the letter, — that was a most disastrous accident.
I had read very frequently this fatal billet. "Who is it
that could imitate your hand so exactly ? The same
fashion in the letters, the same colour in the ink, the
same style, and the sentiments expressed so fully and
accurately coalescing with the preceding and genuine
passages ! — no wonder that your mother, being so well
acquainted with your pen, should have no doubt as to
your guilt, after such testimony.

There must be a perpetrator of this iniquity. Talbot
it could not be ; for where lay the letter in the interval
between its disappearance and his return? and what
motive could influence him to commit or to countenance
such a forgery ?

Without doubt there was some deceiver. Some one
stole the letter, and by his hand was this vile conclusion
added, and by him was it communicated to Talbot. But
hast thou such an enemy in the world ? Whom have you
offended, capable of harbouring such deadly vengeance ?

Pray, my friend, sit down to the recollection of your
past life, and inquire who it was that possessed your
husband's confidence; who were his intimate compan-
ions, endeavour to discover ; tell me the names and cha-
racters of all those who were accustomed to visit your
either on your account or his. Strange, if among
all ifiesethere is no foundation for some conjecture, how-

mson/is no better, yet grows worse hardly per-
Adieu. Henry Colben.

LETTER XXXVI.
To Henry Colden.

Philadelphia, November 23.
You impose on me a painful task. Persuaded that
reflection was useless, I have endeavoured to forget this
fatal letter and all its consequences. I see you will not

142 JANE TALBOT.

allow me to forget it ; but I must own it is weakness to
endeavour to shun the scrutiny.

Some one, my friend, must be in fault ; and what fault
can be more atrocious than this ? To defraud, by forgery, .
your neighbour of a few dollars, is a crime which nothing
but a public and ignominious death will expiate; yet
how trivial is that offence, compared with a fraud like
this, which robs a helpless woman of her reputation, —
introduces mortal enmity between her and those whose
affection is necessary to render life tolerable!

Whenever I think of this charge, an exquisite pain
seizes my heart. There must be the blackest perfidy
somewhere. I cannot bear to think that any human
creature is capable of such a deed, — a deed which the
purest malice must have dictated, since there is none,
surely, in the world, whom I have ever intentionally
inj ured.

I cannot deal in conjectures. The subject, I find by
my feelings since I began this letter, is too agonizing, —
too bewildering. It carries back my thoughts to a time
of misery, to which distance, instead of soothing it into
apathy, only adds a new sting.

A spotless reputation was once dear to me, but I have
now torn the passion from my heart. I am weary of
pursuing a phantom. No one has pursued it with more
eagerness and perseverance than I ; and what has been
the fruit of my labour but reiterated mortification and
disappointment ?

An upright demeanour, a self-acquitting conscience,
are not suiScient for our safety. Calumny and misappre-
hension have no bounds to their rage and their activity.

How little did my thoughtless heart imagine the hor-
rid images which beset the minds of my mother and my
husband ! Happy ignorance ! Would to Heaven it had
continued ! Since knowledge puts it not in my power
to remove the error, it ought to be avoided as the great-
est evil.

While I know my own motives, and am convinced of
their purity, let me hold in contempt the opinions of the
Avorld respecting me. They can never have a basis in
truth. Be they favourable or otherwise, they cannot fail

JANE TALBOT. I43

to be built on imperfect knowledge. The praise of
others is therefore as little to be sought or prized as
their censure to be dreaded or shunned.

Heaven knows how much I value the favour and affec-
tion of my mother ; but, dear as it is, I must give it up.
How can I retain it? I cannot confute the charge. I
must not acknowledge a guilt that does not belong to
me. Added, therefore, to her belief of my guilt, must
be the persuasion of my being a hardened and obdurate
criminal.

What will she think of my last two letters? The
former tacitly confessing my unworthiness and promising
compliance with all her wishes, the next asserting my
innocence and refusing her generous offers. My first
she will probably ascribe to an honourable compunction,
left to operate without your control. In the second she
will trace your influence. Left to myself, she will ima-
gine me capable of acting as she wishes ; but, guided by
you, she will lose all hopes of me, and resign me to my
fate.

Indeed, I have given up my mother. There is no
other alternative but that of giving up you; and in this
case I can hesitate, indeed, but I cannot decide against
you.

I am placed in a very painful situation. I feel as if
every hour spent under this roof was an encroachment
on another's rights. My mother's bounty is not with-
held, merely because my rebellion against her will is not
completed; but I that feel no doubt, and whom mere
consideration of her pleasure, important as it is, will
never make swerve from my purpose, — ought I to
enjoy goods to which I have forfeited all title? Ought
I to wait for an express command to begone from her
doors ? Ought I to lay her under the necessity of de-
claring her will?

Yet if I change my lodgings immediately, without
waiting her directions, will she not regard my conduct as
contemptuous ? Shall I not then be a rebel indeed ? —
one that scorns her favour, and is eager to get rid of aU
my obligations ?

How painful is such a situation ! yet there is no

144 JANE TALBOT.

escaping from it, that I can see. I must, perforce, re-
main as I am. But perhaps her next letter "will throw
some light upon my destiny. I suppose my positive
assertions will show her that a change of purpose cannot
be hoped for from me.

The bell rings. Perhaps it is the postman, and the
intelligence I wish for has arrived. Adieu.

J. Talbot.

LETTER XXXVII.

To the Same.

November 26.

What shall I say to thee, my friend ? How shall I
communicate a resolution fatal, as thy tenderness will
deem it, to thy peace, yet a resolution suggested by a
heart which has, at length, permitted all selfish regards
to be swallowed up by a disintefested cSssideration of
-thy good?

Why did you conceal from r^k^rojir-fatber's treatment
of you, and the consequences which your fidelity to me
has incurred from his rage ? I will never be the cause
of plunging you into poverty so hopeless. Did you think
I would ? and could you imagine it possible to conceal
from me forever his aversion to me ?

How much misery would your forbearance have laid
up in store for my future life ! When fate had put it
out of my power to absolve you from his curses, some
accident would have made me acquainted with the full
extent of the sufferings and contumelies with which, for
my sake, he had loaded you.

But, thanks to Heaven, I am apprized in time of the
truth. Instead of the bearer of a letter from my mo-
ther, whose signal at the door put an end to my last
letter, it was my mother herself.

Dear and welcome as those features and that voice
once were, now would I rather have encountered the
eyes of a basilisk and the notes of the ill-boding raven.

She hastened with all this expedition to thank me; to
urge me to execute; to assist me in performing the pro-

JANE TALBOT. I45

mises of my first letter. The second, in which these
promises were recalled, never reached her hand. She
left New York, as it now appeared, before its arrival.
The interval had been spent on the road, where she had
been detained by untoward and dangerous accidents.

Think, my friend, of the embarrassments attending
this unlooked-for and inauspicious meeting. Joy at my
supposed compliance with her wishes, wishes that imaged
to themselves my happiness, and only mine, enabled her
to support the hardships of this journey. Fatigue and
exposure, likely to be fatal to one of so delicate, so
infirm a constitution, so lately and imperfectly reco-
vered from a dangerous malady, could not deter her.

Fondly, rapturously did she fold to her bosom the long-
lost and late-recovered child. Tears of joy she shed over
me, and thanked me for the tranquil and serene close
which my return to virtue, as she called my acquiescence,
had secured to her life. That life would at all events
be short; but my compliances, if they could not much
protract it, would at least render its approaching end
peaceful.

All attempts to reason with my mother were fruitless.
She fell into alarming agonies when she discovered the full
import of that coldness and dejection which my demeanour
betrayed. Fatigued and indisposed as she was, she made
preparation to depart ; she refused to pass one night under
the same roof, — her own roof, — and determined to be-
gone, on her return home, the very next morning.

Will not your heart comprehend the greatness of this
trial, and pity and excuse a momentary wavering, a yield-
ing irresolution ? Yet it was but momentary. An hour's
solitude and deep reflection fortified my heart against the
grief and supplication even of my mother.

Next day she was more calm. She condescended to
reason, to expostulate. She carefully shunned the men-
tion of atrocious charges. She dwelt only on the proofs
which your past life and your own confessions had afforded
of unsteady courage and unwarrantable principles ;.gour
^^trtBjentop^ife^Wgodbucy girl; your correspondence
with Thomson ; yourign6ble^il'ot57~your dependence upon
others; your helplessness.
' 10

146 JANE TALBOT.

From these accusations I defended you in silence. My
heart was your secret advocate. I did not verbally repel
any of these charges. That of inglorious dependence for
subsistence upon others I admitted ; but I could not for-
bear urging that this dependence was on a father. A
father who was rich ; who had no other child than your-
self ; whose own treatment of you had planted and reared
in you this indisposition to labour; to whose property
your title, ultimately, could not be denied.

"And has he then," she exclaimed, "deceived you in
that particular ? Has he concealed from you his father's
resiilatit5Tks ? That his engagement with you-^as~already
d«awn down his father's anger, and even his curses ? On
his persisting to maintain an inviolable faith to you, he
was ignominiously banished from his father's roof. All
kindred and succour were disclaimed, and on you depends
the continuance of that decree, and whether that pro-
tection and subsistence which he has hitherto enjoyed,
and of which his character stands in so much need, shall
be lost to him forever."

You did not tell me tliis, my friend. In claiming your
love, far was I from imagining that I tore you from your
father's house, and plunged you into that indigence
which your character and education so totally unfit you
for sustaining or escaping from.

My mother removed all doubt which could not but at-
tend such unwelcome tidings, by showing me her own
letter to your father, and his answer to it.
,_ Well do I recollect your behaviour on the evening when
my mother's letter was received by your father. At that
time, your deep dejection was inexplicable. And did you
>iiot — my heart bleeds to think how much my love has
cost you — did you not talk of a fall on the ice when I
pointed to a bruise on your forehead ? That bruise, and
every token of dismay, your endeavours at eluding or
divertmg m^ attention from your sorrow and solemnity,
arejiw explained.

/Good Heaven ! And was I indeed the cause of that vio-
"lence, that contumely, — the rage, and even curses, of a
father ? And why concealed you these maledictions and
this violence from me ? Was it not because you well

JANE TALBOT. 1 47

knew that I would never consent to subject you to such
a penalty ?

Hasten then, I beseech you, to your father; lay this
letter before him ; let it inform him of my solemn and
irrevocable resolution to sever myself from you for-
ever.

But this I will myself do. I will acquaint him with
my resignation to Ms will and that of my mother, and
beseech him to restore you to his favour.

Farewell, m y frie nd. By that name, at least, I may
com}Tme_ier*T5all yoliT^ Yet no. I must never see you
nor hear from you again, unless it be in answer to this
letter.

Let your pity stifle the emotions of indignation or grief,
and return me such an answer as may tend to reconcile
me to the vow which, whether difficult or easy, must not
be broken. J. T.

LETTER XXXVIIL

To Henry Golden, Senior.

November 26.

Sir:—

I was not informed till to-day of the correspondence
that has passed between you and my mother, nor of your
aversion to the alliance which was designed to take place
between your son and me.

It is my duty to inform you that, in my opinion, your
approbation was absolutely necessary to such a union ;
and consequently, since your concurrence is withheld, it
will never take place. Every tie or engagement between
U3 is from this moment dissolved, and all intercourse, by
letter or otherwise, will here end.

Your son, in opposing your wishes, imagined himself
consulting my happiness. In that he was mistaken ; and
I have now removed his error, by acquainting him with
my present determination.

I am deeply grieved that his attachment to me has for-
feited your favour. I hope that there is no other obstacle

148 JANE TALBOT.

to reconcilement, and that the termination of all inter-
course between us may remove that obstacle.

Jane Talbot.

I join my daughter in assuring you that the alliance,
for which a mutual aversion was entertained, cannot take
place; and that all her engagements with your son are
dissolved. I join her likewise in entreating you to forget
his disobedience and restore him to your protection and
favour. M. Fielder.

LETTER XXXIX.

To Mrs. Talbot.

November 28.

It becomes me to submit without a murmur to a reso-
lution dictated by a disinterested regard to my happiness.

That you may find in that persuasion, in your mother's
tenderness and gratitude, in the affluence and honour
which this determination has secured to you, abundant
consolation for every evil that may befall yourself or
pursue me, are my only wishes.

Far was I from designing to conceal from you entirely
my father's aversion to our views. I frequently apprized
you of the inferences to be naturally drav/n from his
known character; but I trusted to his generosity, to the
steadiness of my own deportment, to your own merits,
when he should become personally acquainted with you,
to his good sense, when reflecting on an evil in his power
to lessen though not wholly to remove, for a change in
his opinions, or, at least, in his conduct.

There was sufficient resemblance in the characters of
both our parents to make mc rely on the influence of time
and reflection in our favour. Your mother could not
cease to love you. I could not by any accident be wholly
bereaved of my father's affection. No conduct of theirs
had robbed them of my esteem. Why then did I persist
in thwarting their wishes? Why encourage you in your
opposition ? Because I imagined that, in thwarting their
present views, which were founded in error, I consulted

JANE TALBOT. 1 49

their lasting happiness, and made myself a title to their
future gratitude by challenging their present rebukes.

I told you not of my father's passionate violences, dis-
graceful to himself and productive of unspeakable anguish
to me. Why should I revive the scene ? why be the his-
torian of my father's dishonour ? why needlessly add to
my own and to your affliction ?

My concealments arose not from the fear that the dis-
closure would estrange you from me. I supposed you
willing to grant me the same independence of a parent's
control which you claimed for yourself. I saw no differ-
ence between forbearing to consult a parent, in a case
where we know that his answer will condemn us, and
slighting his express forbidding.

I say thus much to account for, and, if possible, excuse,
that concealment with which you reproach me. Tender
and reluctant, indeed, are these reproaches; but, as I
deem it a sacred duty to reveal to you the utmost of my
follies, what but injustice to you would be the tacit ad-
mission of injurious but groundless charges ?

My actual faults are of too deep a dye to allow me to
sport with your good opinion, or permit me to be worse
thought of by you than I deserve.

You exhort me to seek reconcilement with my father.
What mean you? I have not been the injurer. Not an
angry word, accusing look, or revengeful thought, has
come from me. I have exercised the privilege of a ra-
tional and moral being. I have loved, not according \,a
another's estimate of merit, but my own. Of what then
am I to repent ? Where lies my transgression ? If his
treatment of me be occasioned by antipathy for you,
must I adopt his antipathy and thus creep again into
favour ? Impossible ! If it arise from my refusing to
give up an alliance which his heart abhors, your letter
to him, which you tell me you mean to write, and which
will inform him that every view of that kind is at an end,
will remove the evil.

Fear not for me, my friend. Whatever be my lot, be
assured that I never can taste pure misery while the
thought abides with me that you are not happy.

And what now remains but to leave with you the bless-

150 JANE TALBOT.

ing of a grateful and devoted heart, and to submit, with
■what humility I can, to the destiny which you have pre-
scribed ?

I should not deserve your love, if I did not now relin-
quish it with an anguish next to despair; neither should
I have merit in my own eyes, if I did not end this letter
with acquitting you, the author of my loss, of all shadow
of blame. , '^ x

Farewell f f orever^ H. Golden.

LETTER XL.

To James Moniford.

November 28.

I TOLD you of your brother Stephen's talk with me
about accompanying him on his northwest voyage. I
mentioned to you what were my objections to the scheme.
It was a desperate adventure ; a sort of forlorn hope ; to
be pursued in case my wishes in relation to Jane should
be crossed. I had not then any, or much, apprehension
of change in her resolutions. So many proofs of a fer-
vent and invincible attachment to me had she lately
given, that I could not imagine any motive strong enough
•to change her purpose. Yet now, my friend, have I ar-
ranged matters with your brother, and expect to bid an
everlasting farewell to my native shore some day within
the ensuing fortnight.

I call it an everlasting farewell, for I have, at present,
neither expectation nor desire of returning. A three years'
wandering among boisterous seas and through various cli-
mates, added to that inward care, that spiritless, dejected
heart, which I shall ever bear about me, would surely never
let me return, even if I had the wish : but I have not the
wish. If I live at all, it must be in a scene far different
and distant from that in which I have been hitherto re-
luctantly detained.

And why have I embraced this scheme ? There can
be but one cause.

Having just returned from following Thomson's remains

JANE TALBOT. 151

tai thegwkre, I received a letter from Jane. Her mother
haajust amVed. She came, it seems, in consequence
of her daughter's apparent compliance with her wishes.
The letter retracting my friend's precipitate promise had
miscarried or had lingered by the way. What I little
suspected, my father had acquainted Mrs. Fielder with
his conduct towards me; and this, together with her
mother's imnitttunities, had_£revailed^9ftjane once more
to renounc£^eJ

leireneveroccurred an event in my life which did not,
someway, bear testimony to the usefulness and value of
sincerity. Had I fully disclosed all that passed between
my father and me, should I not easily have diverted Jane
from these extremities? Alone, at a distance from me,
and with her mother's eloquence at hand to confirm every
wayward sentiment and fortify her in every hostile reso-
lution, she is easily driven into paths, and perhaps kept
steadily in them, from which proper explanations and
pathetic arguments, had they been early and seasonably
employed by me, would have led her easily away.

I begin to think it is vain to strive against maternal
influence. What but momentary victory can I hope to
attain? What but poverty, dependence, ignominy, will
she share with me? And if her strenuous spirit set
naught by these, (and I know she is capable of rising
above them,) how will she support her mother's indigna-
tion and grief?

I have now, indeed, no hope of even momentary vic-
tory. There are but two persons in the world who com-
mand her affections. Either, when present, (the other
absent or silent,) has absolute dominion over her. Her
mother, no doubt, is apprized of this, and has now pur-
sued the only effectual method of securing submission.

I have already written an answer ; I hope such a one
as, when the present tumults of passion have subsided,
when the eye sedately scrutinizes, and the heart beats in
an even tenor, may be read without shame or remorse.

I shall also write to her mother. In doing this I must
keep down the swelling bitterness. It may occupy my
solitude, torment my feelings ; but why should it infect
my pen?

152 JANE TALBOT.

I have sometimes given myself credit for impartiality
in judging of others. Indeed, I am inclined to think my-
self no blind or perverse judge even of my own actions.
Hence, indeed, the greater part of my unhappiness. If
my conduct had always conformed, instead of being ad-
verse, to my principles, I should have moved on tranquilly
and self-satisiied, at least; but, in truth, the being that
goes by my name was never more thoroughly contemned
by another than by myself. — But this is falling into the
old strain, — irksome, tiresome, and useless to you as to
me. Yet I cannot write just now in any other ; therefore
I will stop.

Adieu, my friend. There will be time enough to hear
from you ere my departure. Let me hear, then, from
you.

LETTER XLI.

To Henry Colden.

Philadelphia, December 3.

Sir:—

My daughter informs me that the letter she has just
despatched to you contains her resolution of never seeing
you more. I likewise discover that she has requested
and expects a reply from you, in which, she doubts not,
you will confirm her resolution.

You, no doubt, regard me as your worst enemy. No
request from me can hope to be complied with ; yet I can-
not forbear suggesting the propriety of your refraining
from making any answer to my daughter's letter.

In my treatment of you, I shall not pretend any direct
concern for your happiness. I am governed, whether
erroneously or not, merely by views to the true interest
of Mrs. Talbot, which, in my opinion, forbids her to unite
herself to you. But if that union be calculated to be-
reave her of happiness, it cannot certainly be conducive
to yours. If you consider the matter rightly, therefore,
instead of accounting me an enemy, you will rank me
among your benefactors.

JANE TALBOT. 153

You have shown yourself, in some instances, not desti-
tute of generosity. It is but justice to acknowledge that
your late letter to me avows sentiments such as I by no
means expected, and makes me disposed to trust your
candour to acquit my intention, at least, of some of the
consequences of your father's resentment.

I was far from designing to subject you to violence or
ignominy, and meant nothing by my application to him
but your genuine and lasting happiness.

I dare not hope that it will ever be in my power to ap-
pease that resentment which you feel for me. I cannot
expect that you are so far raised above the rest of men,
that any action will be recommended to you by its ten-
dency to oblige me ; yet I cannot conceal from you that
your reconcilement with your father will give me peculiar
satisfaction.

I ventured on a former occasion to make you an offer,
on condition of your going to Europe, which I now beg
leave to repeat. By accepting the enclosed bill, and em-
barking for a foreign land without any further intercourse,
personally or by letter, with my daughter, and after recon-
ciliation with your father, you will confer a very great
favour on one who, notwithstanding appearances, has acted
in a manner that becomes

Your true friend, M. Fielder.

LETTER XLII.

To Mrs. Fielder.

Baltimore, December 5.

Madam : —

I pretend not to be raised above any of the infirmities
of human nature ; but I am too sensible of the errors of
my past conduct, and the defects which will ever cleave to
my character, to be either surprised or indignant at the
disapprobation of a virtuous mind. So far from harbour-
ing resentment against you, it is with reluctance I decline
the acceptance of your bill. I cannot consider it in any
Other light than as an alms which my situation is far

154 JANE TALBOT.

from making necessary, and by receiving whicli I sbould
defraud those whose poverty may plead a superior
title.

I hasten to give you pleasure by informing you of my
intention to leave America immediately. My destiny is
far from being certain ; but at present I both desire and
expect never to revisit my native land.

I design not to solicit another interview with Mrs.
Talbot. You dissuade me from making any reply to her
letter, from the fear, no doubt, that my influence will be
exerted to change her resolution. Dismiss, I entreat you,
madam, every apprehension of that kind. Your daughter
has deliberately made her election. If no advantage be
taken of her tenderness and pity, she will be happy in
her new scheme. Shall I, who pretend to love her, sub-
ject her to new trials and mortifications? Am I able to
reward her, by my affection, for the loss of every other
comfort ? What can I say in favour of my own attach-
ment to her, which may not be urged in favour of her
attachment to her mother ? The happiness of the one or
the other must be sacrificed; and shall I not rather offer
than demand the sacrifice? and how poor and selfish
should I be if I did not strive to lessen the difficulties of
her choice, and persuade her that in gratifying her mother
she inflicts no lasting misery on me !

I regard in its true light what you can say with re-
spect to a reconcilement with my father, and am always
ready to comply with your wishes in the only way that a
conviction of my own rectitude will permit. I have pa-
tiently endured revilings and blows, but I shall not need-
lessly expose myself to new insults. Though willing to
accept apology and grant an oblivion of the past, I will
never avow a penitence which I do not feel, or confess
that I deserved the treatment I received.

Truly can I afiirm that your daughter's happiness is of
all earthly things most dear to me. I fervently thank
Heaven that I leave her exempt from all the hardships
of poverty, and in the bosom of one who will guard her
safety with a zeal equal to my own. All that I fear is,
that your efforts to console her will fail. I know the
heart -which, if you thought me worthy of the honour, I

JANE TALBOT. 155

should account it my supreme felicity to call mine. Let
it be a precious deposit in your hands.

And now, madam, permit me to conclude with a solemn
blessing on your head and on hers, and with an eternal
farewell to you both. H. Golden.

LETTER XLIII.

To James Montford.

Philadelphia, December 7.

I HOPE you will approve of my design to accompany
Stephen. The influence of variety and novelty will no
doubt be useful. Why should I allow my present feelings,
which assure me that I have lost what is indispensable not
only to my peace but my life, to supplant the invariable
lesson of experience, which teaches that time and absence
will dull the edge of every calamity? And have I not
found myself peculiarly susceptible of this healing influ-
ence?

Time and change of scene will, no doubt, relieve me ;
but, in the mean time, I have not a name for that wretch-
edness into which I am sunk. The light of day, the com-
pany of mankind, is at this moment insupportable. Of
all places in the world, this is the most hateful to my
soul. I should not have entered the city, I should not
abide in it a moment, were it not for a thought that oc-
curred just before I left Baltimore.

You know the mysterious and inexplicable calumny
which has heightened Mrs. Fielder's antipathy against me.

Of late, I have been continually ruminating on it, and
especially since Mrs. Talbot's last letter. Methinks it
is impossible for me to leave the country till I have
cleared her character of this horrid aspersion. Can there
be any harmony between mother and child, must not sus-
picion and mistrust perpetually rankle in their bosoms,
while this imposture is believed?

Yet how to detect the fraud — Some clue must be dis-
cernible; perseverance must light on it at last. The
agent in this sordid iniquity must be human; must be

I $6 JANE TALBOT.

influenced by the ordinary motives; must be capable of
remorse or of error ; must have moments of repentance
or of negligence.

My mind was particularly full of this subject in a mid-
night ramble which I took just before I left Baltimore.
Something — I know not what — recalled to my mind a
conversation ^f-hich I Hadxyith the poor washwoman at
Wilmington. '- Miss J essupj ) whom you well know by my
report, passed through W ilmington just as I left the sick
woman's house, and stopped a moment just to give me a
"How d'ye" and to drop some railleries founded on my
visits to Miss Seeker, a single and solitary lady. On
reaching Philadelphia, she amused herself with perplex-
ing Jane by jesting exaggerations on the same subject,
in a way that seemed to argue somewhat of malignity;
yet I thought nothing of it at the time.

On my next visit to the sick woman, it occurred to me,
for want of other topics of conversation, to introduce Miss
Jessup. Did she know any thing, I asked, of that lady ?

Oh, yes, was the answer. A great deal. She lived a
long time in the family. She remembered her well, and
was a sufferer by many of her freaks.

It was always disagreeable to me to listen to the slander-
ous prate of servants ; I am careful, whenever it intrudes
itself, to discourage and rebuke it ; but just at this time I
felt some resentment against this lady, and hardly sup-
posed it possible for any slanderer to exaggerate her con-
temptible qualities. I suflfered her therefore to run on
in a tedious and minute detail of the capricious, peevish,
and captious deportment of Miss Jessup.

After the rhetoric of half an hour, all was wound up,
in a kind of satirical apology, with, "No wonder; for the
girl was over head and ears in love, and her man would
have nothing to say to her. A hundred times has she
begged and prayed him to be kind, but he slighted all her
advances ; and always, after they had been shut up to-
gether, she wreaked her disappointment and ill-humour
upon us."

"Pray," said I, "who was th is unp^rateful person ? "

" His name was Talbot . Miss Jessup would not give
him up, but teased him with letters and prayers till the

JANE TALBOT. 157

man at last got married, — ten to one, for no other reason
than to get rid of her."

This intelligence was new. Much as I had heard of
Miss Jessup, a story like this had never reached my
ears. I quickly ascertained that the Talbot spoken of
was the late husband of my friend.

Some incident interrupted the conversation here. The
image of Miss Jessup was displaced to give room to more
important reveries, and I thought no more of her till this
night's ramble. I now likewise recollected that the only
person suspected of having entered the apartment where
lay Mrs. Talbot's unfinished letter was no other than Miss
Jessup herself, who was always gadding at unseasonable
hours. How was this suspicion removed ? By Miss Jessup
herself, who, on being charged with the theft, asserted that
she was elsewhere engaged at the time.

It was, indeed, exceedingly improbable that Miss Jessup
had any agency in this affair, — a volatile, giddy, thought-
less character, who betrayed her purposes on all occasions,
from a natural incapacity to keep a secret. And yet
had not this person succeeded in keeping her attachment
to Mr. Talbot from the knowledge, and even the suspicion,
of his wife? Their intercourse had been very frequent
since her marriage, and all her sentiments appeared to
be expressed with a rash and fearless confidence. Yet, if
Hannah Seeker's story deserved credit, she had exerted
a wonderful degree of circumspection, and had placed on
her lips a guard that had never once slept.

I determined to stop at Wilmington next day, on my
journey to you, and glean what further information
Hannah could give. I ran to her lodgings as soon as I
alighted at the inn.

I inquired how long and in what years she lived with
Miss Jessup ; what reason she had for suspecting her mis-
tress of an attachment to Talbot ; what proofs Talbot gave
of aversion to her wishes.

On each of these heads her story was tediously minute
and circumstantial. She lived with Miss Jessup and her
mother before Talbot's marriage with my friend, after
the marriage, and during his absence on the voyage which
occasioned his death.

158 JANE TALBOT.

The proofs of Miss Jessup's passion were continually
occurring in her own family, where she suffered the ill-
humour occasioned by her disappointment to display
itself without control. Hannah's curiosity was not chas-
tened by much reflection, and some things were overheard
which verified the old maxim that "walls have ears."
In short, it appears that this poor lady doted on Talbot ;
that she reversed the usual methods of proceeding, and
submitted to his mercy ; that she met with nothing but
scorn and neglect ; that even after his marriage with Jane
she sought his society, pestered him with invitations and
letters, and directed her walks in such a way as to make
their meeting in the street occur as if by accident.

While Talbot was absent, she visited his wife very fre-
quently, but the subjects of their conversation and the
degree of intimacy between the two ladies were better
known to me than to Hannah.

You may think it strange that my friend never sus-
pected or discovered the state of Miss Jessup's feelings.
But, in truth, Jane is the least suspicious or inquisitive
of mortals. Her neighbour was regarded with no parti-
cular afiection ; her conversation is usually a vein of im-
pertinence or levity ; her visits were always unsought, and
eluded as often as decorum would permit; her talk was
seldom listened to, and she and all belonging to her were
dismissed from recollection as soon as politeness gave leave.
Miss Jessup's deficiencies in personal and mental graces,
and Talbot's undisguised contempt for her, precluded
every sentiment like jealousy.

Jane's life since the commencement of her acquaintance
with Miss Jessup was lonely and secluded. Her friends
were not of her neighbour's cast, and those tattlers who
knew any thing of Miss Jessup's follies were quite un-
known to her. No wonder, then, that the troublesome
impertinence of this poor woman had never betrayed her
to so inattentive an observer as Jane.

After many vague and fruitless inquiries, I asked
Hannah if Miss Jessup was much addicted to the pen.

Very much. Was always scribbling. Was never by
herself three minutes but the pen was taken up; would
write on any pieces of paper that offered ; was frequently

JANE TALBOT. 1 59

rebuked by her mother for wasting so much time in this
■way ; the cause of a great many quarrels between them ;
the old lady spent the whole day knitting ; supplied her-
self in this way with all the stockings she herself used ;
knit nothing but worsted, which she wore all the year
round ; all the surplus beyond what she needed for her
own use she sold at a good price to a Market Street
shopkeeper ; Hannah used to be charged with the com-
mission ; always executed it grumblingly ; the old lady

had stipulated with a Mr. H to take, at a certain

price, all she made; Hannah was despatched with the
stockings, but was charged to go beforehand to twenty
other dealers and try to get more ; used to go directly to
Mr. H , and call on her friends by the way, persuad-
ing the old lady that her detention was occasioned by the
number and perseverance of her applications to the dealers
in hose, till at last she fell under suspicion, was once fol-
lowed by the old lady, detected in her fraud, and dismissed
from the house with ignominy. The quondam mistress
endeavoured to injure Hannah's character by reporting
that her agent had actually got a higher price for the
stockings than she thought proper to account for to her
employer ; had gained, by this artifice, not less than three
farthings a pair on twenty-three pairs ; all a base lie as
ever was told

" You say that Miss Jessup was a great scribbler. Did
she write well ; fast; neatly?"

" They say she did, — very well." For her part, she
could not write, and was therefore no judge ; but Tom,
the waiter and coachman, was very fond of reading and
writing, and used to say that Miss Polly would make a
good clerk. Tom used to carry all her messages and
letters; was a cunning and insinuating fellow; cajoled
his mistress by flatteries and assiduities ; got many a
smile, many a bounty and gratuity, for which the fellow
only laughed at her behind her back.

"What has become of this Tom?"

He lived with her still, and was in as high favour as
ever. Tom had paid her a visit the day before, being in
attendance on his mistress on her late journey. From
him she supposed that Miss Polly had gained intelligence

l60 JANE TALBOT.

of Hannah's situation, and of her being succoured, in her
distress, by me.

" Tom, you say, was her letter-carrier. Did you ever
hear from him with whom she corresponded? Did she
ever write to Talbot?"

"Oh, yes. Just before Talbot's marriage, she often
wrote to him. Tom used to talk very freely in the
kitchen about his mistress's attachment, and always told
us what reception he met with. Mr. Talbot seldom con-
descended to write any answer."

"I suppose, Hannah, I need hardly ask whether you
have any specimen of Miss Jessup's writing in your pos-
session?"

Tliis question considerably disconcerted the poor wo-
man. She did not answer me till I had repeated the
question.

Why — yes ; she had — something — she believed.

" I presume it is nothing improper to be disclosed : if
80, I should be glad to have a sight of it."

She hesitated; was very much perplexed; denied and
confessed alternately that she possessed some of Miss
Jessup's writing; at length began to weep very bitterly.

After some solicitation, on my part, to be explicit, she
consented to disclose what she acknowledged to be a great
fault. The substance of her story was this : —

Miss Jessup, on a certain occasion, locked herself up
for several hours in her chamber. At length she came
out, and went to the street-door, apparently with an inten-
tion of going abroad. Just then a heavy rain began to
fall. This incident produced a great deal of impatience,
and after waiting some time, in hopes of the shower's
ceasing, and frequently looking at her watch, she called
for-an umbrella. Unhappily, as poor Hannah afterwards
thought, no umbrella could be found. Her own had been
lent to a friend the preceding evening, and the mother
would have held herself most culpably extravagant to
uncase hers without a most palpable necessity. Miss
Polly was preparing to go out unsheltered, when the offi-
cious Tom interfered, and asked her if lie could do what
she wanted. At first she refused his offer, but, the mo-
ther's importunities to stay at home becoming more cla-

JANE TALBOT. l6l

morous, she consented to commission Tom to drop a letter
at the post-office. This he was to do with the utmost
despatch, and promised that not a moment should be lost.
He received the letter, but, instead of running off with
it immediately, he slipped into the kitchen, just to arm
himself against the storm by a hearty draught of strong
.beer.

While quaffing his nectar, and chattering with his usual
gayety, Hannah, who had long owed a grudge both to mis-
tress and man, was tempted to convey the letter from
Tom's pocket, where it was but half deposited, into her
own. Her only motive was to vex and disappoint those
whose chief pleasure it had always been to vex and dis-
appoint her. The tankard being hastily emptied, he
hastened away to the post-office. When he arrived there,
he felt for the letter. It was gone ; dropped, as he sup-
posed, in the street. In great confusion he returned,
examining very carefully the gutters eCnd porches by the
way. He entered the kitchen in great perplexity, and
inquired of Hannah if a letter had not fallen from his
pocket before he went out.

Hannah, according to her own statements, was inca-
pable of inveterate malice. She was preparing to rid
Tom of his uneasiness, when he was summoned to the
presence of his lady. He thought proper to extricate
himself from all difficulties by boldly affirming that the
letter had been left according to direction, and he after-
wards endeavoured to persuade Hannah that it had been
found in the bottom of his pocket.

Every day increased the difficulty of disclosing the truth.
Tom and Miss Jessup talked no more on the subject, and
time, and new provocations from her mistress, confirmed
Hannah in her resolution of retaining the paper.

She could not read, and was afraid of trusting anybody
else with the contents of this epistle. Several times she
was about to burn it, but forbore from the persuasion
that a day might arrive when the possession would be of
some importance to her. It had lain, till almost forgotten,
in the bottom of her crazy chest.

I rebuked her, with great severity, for her conduct, and
insisted on her making all the atonement in her power,
11

1 62 JANE TALBOT.

by delivering up the letter to the writer. I consented
to take charge of it for that purpose.

You will judge my surprise, when I received a letter,
with the seal unbroken, directed to Mrs. Fielder, of New
York. Jane and I had often been astonished at the
minute intelligence which her mother received of our/
proceedings ; at the dexterity this secret informant had^
displayed in misrepresenting and falsely construing our
actions. The informer was anonymous, and one of the
letters had been extorted from her mother by Jane's
urgent solicitations. This I had frequently perused, and I
the penmanship was still familiar to my recollection. It '
bore a striking resemblance to the superscription of this
letter, and was equally remote from Miss Jessup's ordi-/
nary handwriting. Was it rash to infer from these cir-
cumstances that the secret enemy, whose malice had been
so active and successful, was at length discovered ?

What was I to do ? Should I present myself before Miss
Jessup with this letter in my hand, and lay before her my
suspicions, or should I carry it to Mrs. Fielder, to whom
it was directed ? My curiosity was defeated by the care-
ful manner in which it was folded ; and this was not a case
in which I deemed myself authorized to break a seal.

After much reflection, I determined to call upon Miss
Jessup. I meant not to restore her the letter, unless the
course our conversation should take made it proper. I
have already been at her house. She was not at home.
I am to call again at eight o'clock in the evening.

In my way thither I passed Mrs. Talbot's house.
There were scarcely any tokens of its being inhabited.
No doubt the mother and child have returned together to
New York. On approaching the house, my heart, too
heavy before, became a burden almost insupportable. I
hastened my pace, and averted my eyes.

I am now shut up in my chamber at an inn. I feel
as if in a wilderness of savages, where all my safety
consisted in solitude. I was glad not to meet with a
human being whom I knew.

What I shall say to Miss Jessup when I see her, I know
not. I have reason to believe her the author of many
slanders, but look for no relief from the mischiefs they

JANE TALBOT. 163

have occasioned, in accusing or upbi-aiding the slanderer.
She has likewise disclosed many instances of guilty con-
duct, which I supposed impossible to be discovered. I
never concealed them from Mrs. Talbot, to whom a tho-
rough knowledge of my character was indispensable ; but
I was unwilling to make any other my confessor. In
this I cannot suppose her motives to have been very bene-
volent; but, since she adhered to the truth, it is not for
me to arraign her motives.

May I not suspect that she had some hand in the forgery
lately come to light ? A mind like hers must hate a suc-
cessful rival. To persuade Talbot of his wife's perfidy
was at least to dissolve his alliance with another ; and
since she took so much pains to gain his favour, even after
his marriage, is it not allowable to question the delicacy
and punctiliousness, at least, of her virtue ?

Mrs. Fielder's aversion to me is chiefly founded on
a knowledge of my past errors. She thinks them too
flagrant to be atoned for, and too inveterate to be cured.
I can never hope to subdue perfectly that aversion, and,
though Jane can never be happy without me, / alone can-
not make her happy. On my own account, therefore,
it is of little moment what she believes. But her own
happiness is deeply concerned in clearing her daughter's
character of this blackest of all stains.

Here is some one coming up the stairs towards my
apartment. Surely it cannot be to me that this visit is
intended.

5p *jC 3jC 3fC 3p 3fE

Good Heaven ! "What shall I do ?

It was Molly that has just left me.

My heart sunk at her appearance. I had made up my
mind to separate my evil destiny from that of Jane, and
could only portend new trials and diiBculties from the ap-
pearance of one whom I supposed her messenger.

The poor girl, as soon as she saw me, began to sob bit-
terly, and could only exclaim, " Oh, sir ! Oh, Mr. Golden !"

This behaviour was enough to terrify me. I trembled
in every joint while I faltered out, "I hope your mistress
is well?"

After many efforts, I prevailed in gaining a distinct

164 JANE TALBOT.

account of my friend's situation. This good girl, by the
sympathy she always expressed in her mistress's fortunes,
by her silent assiduities and constant proofs of discretion
and affection, had gained Mrs. Talbot's confidence ; yet
no further than to indulge her feelings with less restraint
in Molly's presence than in that of any other person.

I learned that the night after Mrs. Fielder's arrival was
spent by my friend in sighs and restlessness. Molly lay
in the same chamber, and her affectionate heart was as
much a stranger to i-epose as that of her mistress. She
frequently endeavoured to comfort Mrs. Talbot, but in
vain.

Next day she did not rise as early as usual. Her mo-
ther came to her bedside, and inquired affectionately after
her health. The visit was received with smiling and af-
fectionate complacency. Her indisposition was disguised,
and she studied to persuade Mrs. Fielder that she enjoyed
her usual tranquillity. She rose, and attempted to eat,
but quickly desisted, and after a little while retired and
locked herself up in her chamber. Even Molly was not
allowed to follow her.

In this way that and the ensuing day passed. She wore
an air of constrained cheerfulness in her mother's presence ;
affected interest in common topics ; and retired at every
convenient interval to her chamber, where she wept in-
cessantly.

Mrs. Fielder's eye was watchful and anxious. She
addressed Mrs. Talbot in a tender and maternal accent;
seemed solicitous to divert her attention by anecdotes of
New York friends ; and carefully eluded every subject
likely to recall images which were already too intimately
present. The daughter seemed grateful for these solici-
tudes, and appeared to fight with her feelings the more
resolutely because they gave pain to her mother.

All this was I compelled to hear from the communi-
cative Molly.

My heart bled at this recital. Too well did I predict
what effect her compliance would have on her peace.

I asked if Jane had not received a letter from me.

Yes; two letters had come to the door at once, this
morning, — one for Mrs. Fielder and the other for her

JANE TALBOT. 165

daughter. Jane expected its arrival, and showed the ut-
most impatience when the hour approached. She walked
about her chamber, listened, with a start, to every sound,
continually glanced from her window at the passengers.

She did not conceal from Molly the object of her solici-
tude. The good girl endeavoured to soothe her, but she
checked her with vehemence : — " Talk not to me, Molly.
On this hour depends my happiness, — my life. The
sacrifice my mother asks is too much or too little. In
bereaving me of my love, she must be content to take
imy existence also. They never shall be separated."

The weeping girl timorously suggested that she had
already given me up.

" True, Molly, in a rash moment I told him that we
meet no more ; but two days of misery have convinced me
that it cannot be. His answer will decide my fate as to
this world. If he accept m y d ^missal, ^ air* tlipnppff»i-|->|
u ndone. I will die. B]i^ mg~grT»jnother. and wishing
her a less stubborn chiKij_Jj*»^^ die^

These last words were uttered witE^n air the most des-
perate, and an emphasis the most solemn. They chilled
me to the heart, and I was unable longer to keep my seat.
Molly, unbidden, went on.

"Your letter at last came. I ran down to receive it.
Mrs. Fielder was at the street-door before me, but she
suffered me to carry my mistress's letter to her. Poor
lady ! She met me at the stair-head, snatched the paper
eagerly, but trembled so she could not open it. At last
she threw herself on the bed, and ordered me to read it
to her. I did so. At every sentence she poured forth
fresh tears, and exclaimed, wringing her hands, ' Oh, what
— what a heart have I madly cast away !' "

The girl told me much more, which I am unable to re-
peat. Her visit was self-prompted. She had caught
a glimpse of me as I passed the door, and, without men-
tioning her purpose to her mistress, set out as soon as it
was dusk.

" Cannot you do something, Mr. Golden, for my mis-
tress?" continued the girl. "She will surely die if she
has not her own way ; and, to judge from your appear-
ance, it is as great a cross to you as to her."

1 66 JANE TALBOT.

Heaven knows, that, with me, it is nothing but the
choice of dreadful evils. Jane is the mistress of her
own destiny. It is not I that have renounced her, but
she that has banished me. She has only to recall the
sentence, which she confesses to have been hastily and
thoughtlessly pronounced, and no power on earth shall
sever me from her side.

Molly asked my permission to inform her mistress of
my being in the city, and conjured me not to leave it,
during the next day at least. I readily consented, and
requested her to bring me word in the morning in what
state things were.

She offered to conduct me to her then. It was easy
to effect an interview without Mrs. Fielder's knowledge ;
but I was sick of all clandestine proceedings, and had
promised Mrs. Fielder not to seek another meeting with
her daughter. I was likewise anxious to visit Miss Jessup,
and ascertain what was to be done by means of the letter
in my pocket.

Can I, my friend, — can I, without unappeasable re-
morse, pursue this scheme of a distant voyage ? Suppose
some fatal despair should seize my friend. Suppose — it
is impossible. I will not stir till she has had time to de-
liberate ; till resignation to her mother's will shall prove
a task that is practicable. ^^^

Should I not be the mos^^fragrant of villains if I de-
serted one that loved me ? J5ly own happiness is not a
question. I cannot be a selfish being and a true lover.
Happiness, without her, is indeed a chimerical thought ;
but my exile would be far from miserable, while assured
of her tranquillity, and possession would confer no peace,
if she whom I possessed were not happier than a different
destiny would make her.

Why have all these thoughts been suspended for the
last two days ? I had wrought myself up to a firm per-
suasion that marriage was the only remedy for all evils ;
that our efforts to regain the favour of her mother would
be most likely to succeed when that which she endea-
voured to prevent was irretrievable. Yet that persuasion
was dissipated by her last letter. TJiat convinced me
that her lot would only be made miserable by being united

JANE TALBOT. 1 6/

to mine. Yet now, is it not evident that our fates must
be inseparable?

What a fantastic impediment is this aversion of her
mother ! And yet, can I safely and deliberately call it
fantastic? Let me sever myself from myself, and judge
impartially. Be my heart called upon to urge its claims
to such affluence, such love, such treasures of personal
and mental excellence, as Jane has to bestow. Would it
not be dumb ? It is not so absurd as to plead its devo-
tion to her as an atonement for every past guilt, and as
affording security for future uprightness.

On my own merit I am, and ever have been, mute. I
have plead with Mrs. Fielder, not for myself, but for
Jane. It is her happiness that forms the object of my
supreme regard. I am eager to become hers, because
lier, not because my happiness, though my happiness cer-
tainly does^ demand it.

I am then resolved. Jane's decision shall be delibe-
rate. I will not bias her by prayers or blandishments.
Her resolution shall spring from her own judgment, and
shall absolutely govern me. I will rivet myself to her
side, or vanish forever, according to her pleasure.

I wish I had written a few words to her by Molly, as-
suring her of my devotion to her will. And yet, stands
she in need of any new assurances ? She has banished
me. I am preparing to fly. She recalls me, and it is
impossible to depart.

I must go to Miss Jessup's. I will take up the pen

('tis my sole amusement) when I return.

******

I went to Miss Jessup's ; her still sealed letter in my
pocket ; my mind confused, perplexed, sorrowful ; wholly
undetermined as to the manner of addressing her, or the
use to be made of this important paper. I designedly
prolonged my walk, in hopes of forming some distinct
conception of the purpose for which I was going, but
only found myself each moment sinking into new per-
plexities. Once I had taken the resolution of opening
her letter, and turned my steps towards the fields, that
I might examine it at leisure ; but there was something

1 68 JANE TALBOT.

disgraceful in the violation of a seal, Ti'liicli scared me
away from this scheme.

At length, reproaching myself for this indecision, and
leaving my conduct to be determined by circumstances,
I went directly to her house.

Miss Jessup was unwell ; was unfit to see company ;
desired me to send up my name. I did not mention my
name to the servant, but replied I had urgent business,
which a few minutes' conversation would despatch. I was
admitted.

I found the lady in a careless garb, reclining on a sofa,
wan, pale, and of a sickly aspect On recognising me,
she assumed a languidly-smiling air, and received me with
much civility. I took my seat near her. She began to
talk:—

" I am very unwell ; got a terrible cold, coming from
Dover; been laid up ever since; a teasing cough, no
appetite, and worse spirits than I ever suiFered. Glad
you've come to relieve my solitude; not a single soul to
see me ; Mrs. Talbot never favours a body with a visit.
Pray, how's the dear girl? Hear her mother's come;
heard, it seems, of your intimacy with Miss Seeker ; de-
termined to revenge your treason to her goddess ; vowa
she shall henceforth have no more to say to you."

While waiting for admission, I formed hastily the re-
solution in what manner to conduct this interview. My
deportment was so solemn, that the chatterer, glancing
at my face in the course of her introductory harangue,
felt herself suddenly chilled and restrained : —

"Why, what now. Golden? You are mighty grave,
methinks. Do you repent already of your new attach-
ment? Has the atmosphere of Philadelphia reinstated
Jane in all her original rights?"

"Proceed, madam. When you are tired of raillery,
I shall beg your attention to a subject in which your
honour is deeply concerned; to a subject which allows
not of a jest."

"Nay," said she, in some little trepidation, "if you
have any thing to communicate, I am already prepared
to receive it."

"Indeed, Miss Jessup, I have something to communi-

JANE TALBOT. 169

cate. A man of more refinement and address than I can
pretend to would make this communication in a more cir-
cuitous and artful manner; and a man less deeply inte-
rested in the establishment of truth would act with more
caution and forbearance. I have no excuse to plead, no
forgiveness to ask, for what I am now going to disclose.
I demand nothing from you but your patient attention
while I lay before you the motives of my present visit.

"You are no stranger to my attachment to Mrs. Tal--
bot. That my passion is requited is likewise known to
you. That her mother objects to her union with me, and
raises her objections on certain improprieties in my cha-
racter and conduct, I suppose, has already come to your
knowledge.

"You may naturally suppose that I am desirous of
gaining her favour ; but it is not by the practice of fraud
and iniquity, and therefore I have not begun with denying
or concealing my faults. Very faulty, very criminal,
have I been ; to deny that would be adding to the number
of my transgressions: but I assure you, Miss Jessup,
there have been limits to my follies ; there is a boundary
beyond which I have never gone. Mrs. Fielder imagines
me much more criminal than I really am, and her opinion
of me — which, if limited in the strictest manner by my
merits, would amply justify her aversion to my marriage
with her daughter — is, however, carried further than jus-
tice allows.

' ' Mrs. Fielder has been somewhat deceived with regard
to me. She thinks me capable of a guilt of which, vicious
as I am, I am yet incapable. Nay, she imagines I have
actually committed a crime of which I am wholly innocent.

"What think you, madam," (taking her hand, and eye-
ing her with steadfastness;) "she thinks me at once so
artful and so wicked that I have made the wife unfaithful
to the husband ; that I have persuaded Mrs. Talbot to
forget what was due to herself, her fame, and to trample
on her marriage-vow.

"This opinion is not a vague conjecture on suspicion.
It is founded in what seems to be the most infallible of
all evidence ; the written confession of her daughter. The
paper appears to be a letter which was addressed to

170 JANE TALBOT.

the seducer soon after the guilty interview. This paper
came indirectly into Mrs. Fielder's hands. To justify her
charge against us, she has shown it to us. Now, madam,
the guilt imputed to us is a stranger to our hearts. The
crime which this letter confesses never was committed,
and the letter whicli-coulaiiiH Lh«Mipnfession never was
written by Jane(^ It is a f orge ry,^

"Mrs. Fielder sT niaapp rehension, so far as it relates to
me, is of very little moment. I can hope for nothing from
the removal of this error while so many instances of real
misconduct continue to plead against me, hut her daugh-
ter's happiness is materially affected by it, and for her
sake I am anxious to vindicate her fame from this reproach.

"No doiibt. Miss Jessup, you have often asked me in
your heart, since I began to speak, why I have stated
this transaction to you. What interest have you in our
concerns ? What proofs of affection or esteem have you
received from us, that should make you zealous in our
behalf ? Or what relation has your interest in any respect
to our weal or woe ? Why should you be called upon as
a counsellor or umpire in the little family dissensions of
Mrs. Talbot and her mother?

"And do indeed these questions rise in your heart,
Miss Jessup? Does not memory enable you to account
for conduct which, to the distant and casual observer, to
those who know not what you know, would appear strange
and absurd?

"Recollect yourself. I will give you a moment to
recall the past. Think over all that has occurred since
your original acquaintance with Mrs. Talbot or her hus-
band, and tell me, solemnly and truly, whether you dis-
cern not the cause of his mistake. Tell me whether you
know not the unhappy person whom some delusiive pros-
pect of advantage, some fatal passion, has tempted to
belie the innocent."

I am no reader of faces, my friend. I drew no infer-
ences from the confusion sufficiently visible in Miss Jessup.
She made no attempt to interrupt me, but quickly with-
drew her eye from my gaze ; hung her head upon her
bosom ; a hectic flush now and then shot across her cheek.
But these would have been produced by a similar address,

JANE TALBOT. I/I

delivered ivitli much solemnity and emphasis, in any one,
however innocent.

I believe there was no anger in my looks. Supposing
her to have been the author of this stratagem, it awakened
in me not resentment, but pity. I paused ; but she made
no answer to my expostulation. At length I resumed,
with augmented earnestness, grasping her hand : —

" Tell me, I conjure you, what you know. Be not de-
terred by any self-regard; but, indeed, how can your
interest be affected by clearing up a mistake so fatal to
the happiness of one for whom you have always professed
a friendly regard ?

" Will your own integrity or reputation be brought into
question ? In order to exculpate your friend, will it be
necessary to accuse yourself? Have you been guilty in
withholding the discovery ? Have you been guilty in con-
triving the fraud ? Did your own hand pen the fatal letter
which is now brought in evidence against my friend?
Were you yourself guilty of counterfeiting hands, in
order to drive the husband into a belief of his wife's
perfidy?"

A deadly paleness overspread her countenance at these
words. I pitied her distress and confusion, and waited
not for an answer which she was unable to give.

"Yes, Miss Jessup, I well know your concern in this
transaction. I mean not to distress you; I mean not to
put you to unnecessary shame; I have no indignation
or enmity against you. I came hither not to injure or
disgrace you, but to confer on you a great and real bene-
fit ; to enable you to repair the evil which your infatuation
has occasioned. I want to relieve your conscience from
the sense of having wronged one that never wronged you.

"Do not imagine that in all this I am aiming at my
own selfish advantage. This is not the mother's only
objection to me, or only proof of that frailty she justly
ascribes to me. To prove me innocent of this charge
will not reconcile her to her daughter's marriage. It
will only remove one insuperable impediment to her re-
conciliation with her daughter.

"Mrs. Fielder is, at this moment, not many steps from
this spot. Permit me to attend you to her. I will intro-

1/2 J-'-^'E TALBOT.

duce the subject. I will tell her that yoa come to clear
her daughter from an unmerited charge, to confess
that the unfinished letter was taken by you, and that,
by additions in a feigned hand, you succeeded in making
that an avowal of abandoned wickedness, which was origi-
nally innocent, at least, though perhaps indiscreet."

All this was uttered in a very rapid but solemn accent.
I gave her no time to recollect herself; no leisure for
denial or evasion. I talked as if her agency was already
ascertained ; and the feelings she betrayed at this abrupt
and unaware attack confirmed my suspicions.

After a long pause, and a struggle, as it were, for
utterance, she faltered out, "Mr. Golden, you see I am
very sick : this conduct has been very strange. Nothing,
— I know nothing of what you have been saying. I
wonder at your talking to me in this manner : you might
as well address yourself in this style to one you never saw.
What grounds can you have for suspecting me of any con-
cern in this transaction?"

"Ah, madam," replied I, " I see you have not strength
of mind to confess a fault. Why will you compel me to
pi-oduce the proof that you have taken an unauthorized
part in Mrs. Talbot's concerns ? Do you imagine that the
love you bore her husband, even after his marriage, the
efforts you used to gain his favour, his contemptuous re-
jection of your advances, — can you imagine that these
things are not known ?

"Why you should endeavour to defraud the wife of
her husband's esteem, is a question which your own
heart only can answer. Why you should watch Mrs.
Talbot's conduct, and communicate your discoveries, in
anonymous letters and a hand disguised, to her mother,
I pretend not to say. I came not to inveigh against
the folly or malignity of such conduct. I came not even
to censure it. I am not entitled to sit in judgment over
you. My regard for mother and daughter makes me
anxious to rectify an error fatal to their peace. There
is but one way of doing this eifectually, with the least in-
jury to your character. I would not be driven to the
necessity of employing public means to convince the
mother that the charge is false, and that you were the

JANE TALBOT. 1 73

calumniator ; means that will humble and disgrace you
infinitely more than a secret interview and frank confes-
sion from your own lips.

" To deny and to prevaricate in a case like this is to be
expected from one capable of acting as you have acted ;
but it will avail you nothing. It will merely compel me to
have recourse to means less favourable to you. My re-
luctance to employ them arises from regard to you, for
I repeat that I have no enmity for you, and propose, in
reality, not only Mrs. Talbot's advantage, but your own."

I cannot paint the alarm and embarrassment which
these words occasioned. Tears afforded her some relief,
but shame had deprived her of all utterance.

"Let me conjure you," resumed I, "to go with me this
moment to Mrs. Fielder. In ten minutes all may be
over. I will save you the pain of speaking. Only be
present while I explain the matter. Your silent acquies-
cence will be all that I shall demand."

"Impossible!" she exclaimed, in a kind of agony; "I
am already sick to death ! I cannot move a step on such
a purpose. I don't know Mrs. Fielder, and can never
look her in the face."

"A letter, then," replied I, " will do, perhaps, as well.
Here are pen and paper. Send to her, by me, a few
lines. Defer all circumstance and comment, and merely
inform her who the author of this forgery was. Here,"
continued I, producing the letter which Talbot had shown
to Mrs. Fielder, — " here is the letter in which my friend's
hand is counterfeited, and she is made to confess a guilt
to the very thought of which she has ever been a stranger.
Enclose it in a paper, acknowledging the stratagem to be
yours. It is done in a few words, and in half a minute."

My impetuosity overpowered all opposition and remon-
strance. The paper was before her, the pen in her
reluctant fingers ; but that was all.

" There may never be a future opportunity of repair-
ing your misconduct. You are sick, you say ; and, in-
deed, your countenance bespeaks some deeply-rooted
malady. You cannot be certain but that this is the last
opportunity you may ever enjoy. When sunk upon the
bed of death, and unable to articulate your sentiments,

174 JANE TALBOT.

you may unavailingly regret the delay of this confession.
You may die with the excruciating thought of having
blasted the fame of an innocent woman, and of having
sown eternal discord between mother and child."

I said a good deal more in this strain, by which she
was deeply affected ; but she demanded time to reflect.
She would do nothing then ; she would do all I wished
to-morrow. She was too unwell to see anybody, to hold
a pen, at present.

"All I want," said I, "are but few words. You can-
not be at a loss for these. I will hold, I will guide your
hand ; I will write what you dictate. Will you put your
hand to something which I will write this moment in
your presence and subject to your revision ?"

I did not stay for her consent, but, seizing the pen,
put down hastily these words : —

"Madam: the enclosed letter has led you into mis-
take. It has persuaded you that your daughter was
unfaithful to her vows ; but know, madam, that the con-
cluding paragraph was written by me. I found the let-
ter unfinished on Mrs. Talbot's desk. I took it thence
without her knowledge, and added the concluding para-
graph, in a hand as much resembling hers as possible,
and conveyed it to the hands of her husband."

This hasty scribble I read to her, and urged her, by
every consideration my invention could suggest, to sign
it. But no; she did not deny the truth of the state-
ment it contained, but she must have time to recollect
herself. Her head was rent to pieces by pain. She
was in too much confusion to allow her to do any thing
just now deliberately.

I now produced the letter I received from Hannah
Seeker, and said, "I see, madam, you will compel me to
preserve no measures with you. There is a letter which
you wrote to Mrs. Fielder. Its contents were so im-
portant that you would not at first trust a servant with
the delivery of it at the office. This, however, you were
finally compelled to do. A fellow-servant, however, stole
it from your messenger, and, instead of being delivered
according to its address, it has lately come into my hands.

"No doubt," (showing the superscription, but not per-

JANE TALBOT. 1 75

mitting her to see that the seal was unbroken,) " no doubt <
you recognise the hand ; the hand of that anonymous
detractor who had previously taken so much pains to
convince the husband that his wife was an adulteress and
a prostitute."

Had I foreseen the effect which this disclosure would
have had, I should have hesitated. After a few convul-
sive breathings, s he faipt pd. T was greatly alarmed,
and, calling in a female servant, I stayed till she revived.
I thought it but mercy to leave her alone, and, giving
directions to the servant where I might be found, and
requesting her to tell her mistress that I would call again
early in the morning, I left the house.

I returned hither, and am once more shut up in
my solitary chamber. I am in want of sleep, but my
thoughts must be less tumultuous before that blessing can
be hoped for. All is still in the house and in the city,
and the " cloudy morning" of the watchman tells me
that midnight is past. I have already written much, but
must write on.

What, my friend, can this letter contain? The belief
that the contents are known and the true writer dis-
covered produced strange effects. I am afraid there
was some duplicity in my conduct. But the concealment
of the unbroken seal was little more than chance. Had
she inquired whether the letter was opened, I should not
have deceived her.

Perhaps, however, I ascribe too much to this discovery.
Miss Jessup was evidently very ill. The previous con-
versation had put her fortitude to a severe test. The
tide was already so high, that the smallest increase suf-
ficed to overwhelm her. Methinks I might have gained
my purpose with less injury to her.

But what purpose have I gained? I have effected
nothing ; I am as far, perhaps further than ever from
vanquishing her reluctance. A night's reflection may
fortify her pride, may furnish some expedient for eluding
my request. Nay, she may refuse to see me when I
call on the morrow, and I cannot force myself into her
presence.

If all this should happen, what will be left for me to

1/6 JANE TALBOT.

do? T/tai deserves some consideration. This letter of
Miss Jessup's may possibly contain the remedy for many
evils. "What use shall I make of it ? How shall I get
at its contents ?

There is but one way. I must carry it to Mrs. Fielder,
and deliver it to her, to whom it is addressed. Carry it
myself? Venture into her presence by whom I am so
much detested ? She will tremble with mingled indigna-
tion and terror at the sight of me. I cannot hope a
patient audience. And can I, in such circumstances,
rely on my own equanimity? How can I endure the
looks of one to whom I am a viper, a demon ; who, not
content with hating me for that which really merits
hatred, imputes to me a thousand imaginary crimes ?

Such is the lot of one that has forfeited his reputation.
Having once been guilty, the returning path to rectitude
is forever barred against him. His conduct will almost
always be liable to a double construction ; and who will
suppose the influence of good motives, when experience
has proved the influence, in former cases, of evil ones ?

Jane Talbot is young, lovely, and the heiress, provided
she retain the favour of her adopted mother, of a splen-
did fortune. I am poor, indolent, devoted, not to sen-
sual, but to visionary and to costly, luxuries. How shall
such a man escape the imputation of sordid and selfish
motives ?

How shall he prove that he counterfeits no passion,
employs no clandestine or illicit means, to retain the
affections of such a woman. Will his averments of dis-
interested motives be believed ? Why should they be
believed? How easily are assertions made, and how
silly to credit declarations contradicted by the tenor of
a man's whole conduct !

But I can truly aver that my motives are disinterested.
Does not my character make a plentiful and independent
provision, of more value to me, more necessary to my
happiness than to that of most other men ? Can I place
my hand upon my heart, and afiirm that her fortune has
no fart in the zeal witli which I have cultivated Jane's
affections ? There are few tenants of this globe to whom
wealth is wholly undesirable, and very few whose actual

JANE TALBOT. 177

poverty, whose indolent habits, and whose relish for
expensive pleasure, make it more desirable than to me.

Mrs. Fielder is averse to her daughter's wishes. While
this aversion endures, marriage, instead of enriching me,
will merely reduce my wife to my own destitute condition.
How are impartial observers, how is Mrs. Fielder, to
construe my endeavours to subdue this aversion, and my
declining marriage till this obstacle is overcome ? Will
they ascribe it merely to reluctance to bereave the object
of my love of that affluence and those comforts without
which, in my opinion, »he would not be happy ? Yet this
is true. My own experience has taught me in what de-
gree a luxurious education endears to us the means of an
easy and elegant subsistence. Shall I be deaf to this les-
son ? Shall I rather listen to the splendid visions of my
friend, who thinks my love will sufficiently compensate
her for every suffering, — who seems to hold these enjoy-
ments in contempt, and describes an humble and indus-
trious life as teeming with happiness and dignity?

These are charming visions. My heart is frequently
credulous, and is almost raised, by her bewitching elo-
quence, to the belief that, by bereaving her of friends
and property, I confer on her a benefit. I place her in
a sphere where all the resources of her fortitude and
ingenuity will be brought into use.

But this, with me, is only a momentary elevation.
More sober views are sure to succeed. Yet why have I
deliberately exhorted Jane to become mine ? Because I
trust to the tenderness of her mother. That tenderness
will not allow her wholly to abandon her beloved child,
who has hitherto had no rival, and is likely to have no
successor in her love. The evil, she will think, cannot
e repaired ; but some of its consequences may be ob-
viated or lightened. Intercession and submission shall
not be wanting. Jane will never suffer her heart to be
estranged from her mother. Reverence and gratitude
will always maintain their place. And yet, confidence
is sometimes shaken; doubts insinuate themselves. Is
not Mrs. Fielder's temper ardent and inflexible ? Will
her anger be so easily appeased ? In a contest like this,
will she allow herself to be vanquished ? And shall I,
12

178 JANE TALBOT.

indeed, sever hearts so excellent ? Shall I be the author
of such exquisite and lasting misery to a woman like
Mrs. Fielder ? and shall I find that misery compensated
by the happiness of her daughter ? AVhat pure and un-
mingled joy will the daughter taste, while conscious of
having destroyed the peace, and perhaps hastened the
end, of one who, with regard to her, has always deserved
and always possessed a gratitude and veneration without
bounds ? And for whom is the tranquillity and affection
of the mother to be sacrificed? For me, — a poor, un-
worthy wretch; deservedly despised by every strenuous
and upright mind; a fickle, inconsiderate, frail mortal,
whose perverse habits no magic can dissolve.

No. My whole heart implores Jane to forget and
abandon me ; to adhere to her mother ; since no earthly
power and no length of time will change Mrs. Fielder's
feelings with regard to me ; since I shall never obtain, as
I shall never deserve, her regard, and since her mother's
happiness is, and ought to be, dearer to Jane than her
own personal and exclusive gratification. God grant that
she may be able to perform, and cheerfully perform, her
duty !

Eut how often, my friend, have I harped on this string !
Yet I must write, and I must put down my present thoughts,
and these are the sentiments eternally present.

LETTER XLIV.
To Henry Colden.

Philadelphia, December 1.

I SAID I would not write to you again ; I would en-
courage, I would allow of, no intercourse between us.
This was my solemn resolution and my voluntary and no
less solemn promise ; yet I sit down to abjure this vow,
to break this promise.

What a wretch am I ! Feeble and selfish beyond all
example among women ! Why, why was I born, or why
received I breath in a world and at a period, with whose

JANE TALBOT. 1 79

inhabitants I can have no sympathy, whose notions of
rectitude and decency find no answering chord in my
heart ? '

Never was a creature so bereft of all dignity, all stead-
fastness. The slave of every impulse ; blown about by
the predominant gale ; a scene of eternal fluctuation.

Yesterday my mother pleaded. Her tears dropped fast
into my bosom, and I vowed to be all she wished ; not
merely to discard you from my presence, but to banish
even your image from my thoughts. To act agreeably
to her wishes was not sufficient. I must/eeZ as she would
have mo feel. My actions must flow, not merely from a
sense of duty, but from fervent inclination.

I promised every thing. My whole soul was in the
promise. I retired to pen a last letter to you, and to
say something to your father. My heart was firm; my
hand steady. My mother read and approved : — ' ' Dearest
Jane ! Now, indeed, are you my child. After this I will
not doubt your constancy. Make me happy, by finding
happiness in this resolution."

" Oh," thought I, as I paced my chamber alone, "what
an ample recompense for every self-denial, for every
sacrifice, are thy smiles, my maternal friend ! I will live
smilingly for thy sake, while thou livest. I will live only
to close thy eyes, and then, as every earthly good has
been sacrificed at thy bidding, will I take the pillow that
sustained thee when dead, and quickly breathe out upon
it my last sigh."

My thoughts were all lightsome and serene. I had
laid down, methought, no life, no joy, but my own. My
mother's peace, and your peace, for the safety of either
of whom I would cheerfully die, had been purchased by
the same act.

How did I delight to view you restored to your fa-
ther's house ! I was still your friend, though invisible. I
watched over you, in quality of guardian angel. I ethere-
alized myself from all corporeal passions. I even set
spiritual ministers to work to find one worthy of suc-
ceeding me in the sacred task of making you happy. I
was determined to raise you to afiluence, by employing,
in away unseen and unsuspected by you, those super-

l8o JANE TALBOT.

fluities which a blind and erring destiny had heaped
upon me.

And whither have these visions flown ? Am I once more
sunk to a level with my former self? Once I thought
that religion was a substance with me, — not a shadow, to
flit, to mock, and to vanish when its succour was most
needed; yet now does my heart sink.

Oh, comfort me, my friend! plead against yourself;
against me. Be my mother's advocate. Fly away from
these arms that clasp you, and escape from mo, even if
your flight be my death. Think not of me, but of my
mother, and secure to her the consolation of following
my unwedded corpse to the grave, by disclaiming, by
hating, by forgetting, the unfortunate Jane.

LETTER XLV,
To Henry Golden.

December 4.

Ah, my friend ! in what school have you acquired such
fatal skill in tearing the heart of an offender? Why,
under an appearance of self-reproach, do you convey the
bitterest maledictions ? Why, with looks of idolatry and
accents of compassion, do you aim the deadliest contempts
and hurl the keenest censures against me?

"You acquit me of all shadow of blame." What! in
proving me fickle, inconsistent, insensible to all your
merit, ungrateful for your generosity, your love ? How
have I rewarded your reluctance to give me pain, your
readiness to sacrifice every personal good for my sake ?
By reproaching you with dissimulation. By violating all
those vows, which no legal ceremony could make more
solemn or binding, and which the highest, earliest, and
most sacred voice of Heaven has ordained shall supersede
all other bonds. By dooming you to feel "an anguish
next to despair." Thus have I requited your unsullied
truth, your unlimited devotion to me !

By what degrading standard do you measure my en-
joyments ! "In my mother's tenderness and gratitude;

JANE TALBOT. l8l

in the affluence and honour which her regard will secure
to me," am I to find consolation for unfaithfulness to my
engagements ; for every evil that may befall you. You,
whom every hallowed obligation, every principle of human
nature, has placed next to myself; whom it has become
not a fickle inclination, but a sacred duty, to prefer to
all others ; whose happiness ought to be my first and
chief care, and from whose side I cannot sever myself
without a guilt inexpiable !

Ah, cruel friend ! You ascribe my resolution to a dis-
interested regard to your good. You wish me to find
happiness in that persuasion. Yet you leave me not that
phantom for a comforter. You convict me, in every line
of your letter, of selfishness and folly. The only con-
sideration that has irresistible weight with me — the resto-
ration of your father's kindness — you prove to be a mere
delusion, and destroy it without mercy !

Can you forgive me, Henry? Best of men! Will you be
soothed by my penitence for one more rash and inconsi-
derate act ? But, alas ! my penitence is rapid and sincere ;
but where is the merit of compunction that afi'ords no
security against the repetition of the fault ? And where
is my safety?

Fly to me. Save me from my mother's irresistible ex-
postulations. I cannot — cannot withstand her tears. Let
me find in your arms a refuge from them. Let me no more
trust a resolution which is sure to fail. By making the tie
between us such as even she will allow to be irrevocable,
by depriving me of the power of compliance, only can I
be safe.

.Fly to n jig, i:])f, r<^.fnrp.- Bs at the front-door at ten this
night. My Molly will be my only companion. Be the
necessary measures previously taken, that no delay or dis-
appointment may occur. On^Jialf JiouLand^the solemn
ritem av be performed. M y absence will not be missed,
aT"i return immediately. Then will there be an end to
fluctuation, for repentance cannot u?ido. Already in the
sight of Heaven, at the tribunal of my own conscience,
am I thy wife; but somewhat more is requisite to make the
compact universally acknowledged. This is noto my re-
solve. I shall keep it secret from the rest of the world.

1 82 JANE TALBOT.

Nothing but tlie compulsion of persuasion can make me
waver, and concealment will save me from that, and to-
morrow remonstrance and entreaty will avail nothing.

My girl has told me of her interview with you, and
where you are to be found. The dawn is not far distant,
and at sunrise she carries you this. I shall expect an im-
mediate and (need I add, when I recollect the invariable
counsel you have given me ?) a compliant answer.

And shall I — Let me, while the sun lingers, still pour
out my soul on this paper ; let me indulge a pleasing,
dreadful thought — Shall I, ere circling time bring back
this hour, become thy

And shall my heart, after its dreadful languors, its ex-
cruciating agonies, know once more a rapturous emotion?
So lately sunk into despondency ; so lately pondering on
obstacles that rose before me like Alps and menaced
eternal opposition to my darling projects ; so lately the
prey of the deepest anguish : what spell diffuses through
my frame this ravishing tranquillity ?

Tranquillity, said I ? That my throbbing heart gain-
says. You cannot see me just now, but the palpitating
heart infects my fingers, and the unsteady pen will speak
to you eloquently.

I wonder how far sympathy possesses you. No doubt
— ^let me see: ten minutes after four, — no doubt you are
sound asleep. Care has fled away to some other head.
Those invisible communicants, those aerial heralds whose
existence, benignity, and seasonable succour are parts,
thou knowest, of my creed, are busy in the weaving of
some beatific dream. At their bidding the world of thy
fancy is circumscribed by four white walls, a Turkey-
carpeted floor, and a stuccoed ceiling. Didst ever see
such before? Was't ever, in thy wakeful season, in the
same apartment ? Never ! And, what is more, and which
I desire thee to note well, thou art not hereafter to enter
it except in dreams.

A poor taper burns upon the toilet, — just bright enough
to give the cognizance of something in woman's shape and
in negligent attire scribbling near it. Thou needst not
tap her on the shoulder ; she need not look up and smile
a welcome to the friendly vision. She knows that thou

JANE TALBOT. 1 83

art "here; for is not thy hand already in hers, and is not
thy cheek already wet with her tears? for thy poor girl's
eyes are as sure to overflow with joy as with sorrow.

And will it be always thus, my dear friend ? Will thy
love screen me forever from remorse ? will my mother's
reproaches never intrude amidst the raptures of fondness
and poison my tranquillity?

What will she say when she discovers the truth ? My
conscience will not allow me to dissemble. It will not
disavow the name or withhold the duties of a wife. Too
well do I conceive what she will say, — Ixow she will
act.

I need not apprehend expulsion from her house. Exile
will be a voluntary act : — " You shall eat, drink, lodge,
and dress as well as ever. I will not sever husband from
wife, and I find no pleasure in seeing those whom I most
hate perishing with want. I threatened to abandon you,
merely because I would employ every means of prevent-
ing your destruction ; but my revenge is not so sordid as
to multiply unnecessary evils on your head. I shall take
from you nothing but my esteem, — my affection, — my
society. I shall never see you but with agony; I shall
never think of you without pain. I part with you for-
ever, and prepare myself for that grave which your folly
and ingratitude have dug for me.

" You have said, Jane, that, having lost my favour, you
will never live upon my bounty. That will be an act of
needless and perverse cruelty in you. It will be wantonly
adding to that weight with which you have already sunk
me to the grave. Besides, I will not leave you an option.
While I live, my watchful care shall screen you from
penury in spite of yourself. When I die, my testament
shall make you my sole successor. What I have shall be
yours, — at least, while you live.

" I have deeply regretted the folly of threatening you
with loss of property. I should have known you better
than to think that a romantic head like yours would find
any thing formidable in such deprivations. If other con-
siderations were feeble, this would be chimerical.

"Fare you well, Jane, and, when you become a mother,
may your tenderness never be requited by the folly and

184 JANE TALBOT.

ingratitude •R-liich it has been my lot to meet witli in tlie
child of my afFections !"

Something like this has my mother already said to me,
in the course of an affecting conversation, in which I ven-
tured to plead for you. And have I, then, resolved to
trample on such goodness ?

"Whither, my friend, shall I fly from a scene like this ?
Into thy arms ? And shall I find comfort tliere ? can I
endure life, with the burden of remorse which generosity
like this vrill lay upon me ?

But I tell you, Henry, I am resolved. I have nothing
but evil to choose. There is but one calamity greater
than my mother's anger. I cannot mangle my own vitals.
I cannot put an impious and violent end to my own life.
Will it be mercy to make /ier witness my death? and can
I live without you ? If I must be an ingrate, be her and
not you the victim. If I must requite benevolence with
malice and tenderness with hatred, be it her benevolence
and tenderness, and not yours, that are thus requited.

Once more, then, note well. The hour of ten; the
station near the door ; a duly-qualified ofBciator previously
engaged ; and my destiny in this life fixed beyond the
power of recall. The bearer of this will bring back your
answer. Farewell. Hemember. J. Talbot.

LETTER XLVI.

To James 3fontford.

December 9.

Once more, after a night of painful musing or troubled
repose, I am at the pen. I am plunged into greater diffi-
culties and embarrassments than ever.

It was scarcely daylight, when a slumber into which I
had just fallen was interrupted by a servant of the inn.
A girl was below, who wanted to see me. The descrip-
tion quickly proved it to be Molly. I rose and dii-ected
her to be admitted.

She brought two letters from her mistress, and was told
to wait for an answer. Jane traversed her room, half

JANE TALBOT. 1 8$

distracted and sleepless during most of the night. To-
wards morning she sat down to her desk, and finished a
letter, which, together with one written a couple of days
before, was despatched to me.

My heart throbbed — I was going to say gith transport ;
but I am at a loss to say whether anguish or delight was
uppermost on reading these letters. She recalls every
promise of eternal separation ; she consents to immediate
marriage as the only wise expedient ; proposes ten o'clock
tMs night to join our hands ; will conceal her purpose
from her mother, and resigns to me the providing of
suitable means.

I was overwhelmed with surprise and — shall I not say ?
— delight at this unexpected concession. An immediate
and consenting answer was required. I hurried to give
this answer, but my tumultuous feelings would not let
me write coherently. I was obliged to lay down the pen,
and take a turn across the room to calm my tremors.
This gave me time to reflect.

" What," thought I, " am I going to do? To take ad-
vantage of a momentary impulse in my favour. JCfijioIsifi
my pr omises to Mrs. F '^lder • my-lettpr to her may be con-
strued into promises not to seek another interview with
Jane, and to leave the country forever. And shall I be-
tray this impetuous woman into an irrevocable act, which
her whole future life may be unavailingly consumed in
repenting? Some delay, some deliberation, cannot be
injurious.

"And yet this has always been my advice. Shall I
reject the hand that is now offered me ? How will
she regard these new-born scruples, this drawing back
when the door spontaneously opens and solicits my en-
trance ?

"Is it in my power to make Jane Talbot mine? vaj
wife ? And shall I hesitate ? Ah ! would to Heaven it were
a destiny as fortunate for her as for me ! — that no tears,
no repinings, no compunctions, would follow ! Should I
not curse the hour of our union when I heard her sighs ?
and, instead of affording consolation under the distress
produced by her mother's displeasure, should I not need
that consolation as much as she?"

1 86 JA^'E TALBOT.

These reflections had no other effect than to make me
irresolute. I could not return my assent to her scheme.
I could not reject so bewitching an ofi"er. This offer was
the child of a passionate, a desperate moment. Whither,
indeed, should, she fly for refuge from a scene like that
which she describes?

Molly urged me to come to some determination, as her
mistress would impatiently wait her return. Finding it
indispensable to say something, I at length wrote : —

" I have detected the author of the forgery which has
given us so much disquiet. I propose to visit your mo-
ther this morning, when I shall claim admission to you.
In that interview may our future destiny be discussed and
settled. Meanwhile, still regard me as ever ready to pur-
chase your true happiness by every sacrifice."

With this billet Molly hastened away. What cold, re-
pulsive terms were these ! My conscience smote me as
she shut the door. But what could I do ?

I had but half determined to seek an interview with
Mrs. Fielder. What purpose would it answer while the
truth respecting the counterfeit letter still remained im-
perfectly discovered ? And why should I seek an inter-
view with Jane ? Would her mother permit it ? and should
I employ my influence to win her from her mother's side
or rivet her more closely to it ?

What, my friend, shall I do ? You are too far off to
answer me, and you leave me to my own destiny. You
hear not, and will not seasonably hear what I say. To-
day will surely settle all diiSculties, one way or another.
This night, if I will, I may be the husband of this angel,
or I may raise obstacles insuperable between us. Our
interests and persons may be united forever, or we may
start out into separate paths and never meet again.

Another messenger 1 with a letter for me ! Miss Jes-
Bup's servant it is, perhaps. But let me read it.

JANE TALBOT. 187

LETTER XLVIL
To Henry Colden.

Sir:—

Enclosed is a letter, which you may, if you think

December 8.

proper, deliver to Mrs. Fielder. I am very ill. Don't
attempt to see me again. I cannot be seen. Let the en-
closed satisfy you. It is enough. Never should I have
said so much, if I thought I were long for this world.

Let me not have a useless enemy in you. I hope the
fatal eiFects of my rashness have not gone further than
Mrs. Talbot's family. Let the mischief be repaired as
far as it can be ; but do not injure me unnecessarily. I
hope I am understood.

Let me know what use you have made of thelsttajvou
showed me, and, I beseech you, return it^^lSme byffi
bearer. ( M. Jessup.

LETTER XLVIII.

To Mrs. Fielder.

December 8.

Madam : —

This comes from a very unfortunate and culpable hand,
— a hand that hardly knows how to sign its own condem-
nation, and which sickness, no less than irresolution, al-
most deprives of the power to hold the pen.

Yet I call Heaven to witness that I expected not the
evil from my infatuation which, it seems, has followed it.
'T. meant to influence none but Mr. Talbot's belief. I had
the misfortune to see and to love him long before his en-
gagement with your daughter. I overstepped the limits
of my sex, and met with no return to my generous offers
and my weak entreaties but sternness and contempt.

You, madam, are perhaps raised above the weakness
of a heart like mine. You will not comprehend how an
unrequited passion can ever give place to rage and re-

1 88 JANE TALBOT.

venge, and how the merits of the object preferred to me
should only embitter that rerenge.

Jane Talbot never loved the man whom I would have
made happy. Her ingenuous temper easily disclosed her
indifference, and she married not to please herself, but to
please others. Her husband's infatuation in marrying '
on such terms could be exceeded by nothing but his folly
in refusing one who would have lived for no other end
than to please him.

I observed the progress of the intimacy between Mr.
Golden and her, in Talbot's absence ; and can you not
conceive, madam, that my heart was disposed to exult in
every event that verified my own predictions and would
convince Talbot of the folly of his choice ? Hence I was
a jealous observer. The worst construction was put upon
your daughter's conduct. That open, impetuous temper
of hers, confident of innocence, and fearless of ungene-
rous or malignant constructions, easily put her into my
power. Unrequited love made me her enemy as well as
that of her husband, and I even saw, in her unguarded
deportment, and in the reputed licentiousness of Mr.
Colden's principles, some reason, some probability, in my
surmises.

Several anonymous letters were written to you. I
thank Heaven that I was seldom guilty of direct false-
hoods in these letters. I told you little more than what
a jealous eye and a prying disposition easily discovered ;
and I never saw any thing in their intercourse that
argued more than a temper thoughtless and indiscreet.
To distinguish minutely between truths and exaggera-
tions, in the letters which I sent you, would be a painful
and, I trust, a needless task, since I now solemnly declare
that, on an impartial review of all that I ever witnessed
in the conduct of your daughter, I remember nothing that
can justify the imputation of guilt. I believe her con-
duct to Golden was not always limited by a due regard
to appearances ; that she trusted her fame too much to
her consciousness of innocence, and set too lightly by
the malignity of those who would be glad to find her in
fault, and the ignorance of others, who naturally judged
of her by themselves. And this, I now solemnly take

JANE TALBOT. 1 89

Heaven to witness, is the only charge that can truly be
brought against her.

There is still another confession to make. If suiFering
and penitence can atone for any offence, surely mine has
been atoned for ! But it still remains that I should, as
far as my power goes, repair the mischief.

It is no adequate apology, I well know, that the con-
sequences of my crime were more extensive and durable
than I expected ; but is it not justice to myself to say that
this confession would have been made earlier if I had
earlier known the extent of the evil ? I never suspected
but that the belief of his wife's infidelity was buried with
Talbot.

Alas ! wicked and malignant as I was, I meant not to
persuade the mother of her child's profligacy. Why
should I have aimed at this ? I had no reason to dis-
esteem or hate you. I was always impressed with reve-
rence for your character. In the letters sent directly to
you, I aimed at nothing but to procure your interference,
and make maternal authority declare itself against that
intercourse which was essential to your daughter's happi-
ness. It was not you, but her, that I wished to vex and
distress.

I called at Mrs. Talbot's at a time when visitants are
least expected. Nobody saw me enter. Her parlour
was deserted ; her writing-desk was open ; a p unfinished
lett er caught _mj^ es%r — A sentiment half inquisitive and
half mischievous made me snatch it up and withdraw as
abruptly as I entered.

On reading this billet, it was easy to guess for whom
it was designed. It was frank and affectionate; con-
sistent with her conjugal duty, but not such as a very
circumspect and wary temper would have allowed itself
to write.

How shall I describe the suggestions that led me to
make a most nefarious use of this paper ? Circumstances
most unhappily concurred to make my artifice easy and
plausible. I discovered that Golden had spent most of
the preceding night with your daughter. It is true a most
heavy storm had raged during the evening, and the mo-
ment it remitted (which was not till three o'clock) he was

190 JANE TALBOT.

seen to come out. His detention, therefore, candour
would ascribe to the storm ; but this letter, with such a
conclusion as was too easily made, might fix a construc-
tion on it that no time could remove and innocence could
never confute.

I had not resolved in what way I should employ this
letter, as I had eked it out, before Mr. Talbot's return.
When that event took place, my old infatuation revived.
I again sought his company, and the indifference, and
even contempt, with which I was treated, filled me anew
with resentment. To persuade him of his wife's guilt
was, I thought, an effectual way of destroying whatever
remained of matrimonial happiness ; and the means were
fully in my power.

Here I was again favoured by accident. Fortune
seemed determined to accomplish my ruin. My own
ingenuity in vain attempted to fall on a safe mode of put-
ting this letter in Talbot's way, and this had never been
done if chance had not surprisingly befriended my purpose.

One evening I dropped familiarly in upon your daugh-
ter. Nobody was there but Mr. Talbot and she. She
was writing at her desk as usual, for she seemed never
at ease but with a pen in her fingers; and Mr. Talbot
seemed thoughtful and uneasy. At my entrance the
desk was hastily closed and locked. But first she took
out some papers, and, mentioning her design of going
up-stairs to put them away, she tripped to the door.
Looking back, however, she perceived she had dropped
one. This she took up, in some hurry, and withdrew.

Instead of conversing with me, Talbot walked about
the room in a peevish and gloomy humour. A thought
just then rushed into my mind. While Talbot had his
back towards me, and was at a distance, I dropped the
counterfeit, at the spot where Jane had just before
dropped her paper, and with little ceremony took my
leave. Jane had excused her absence to me, and pro-
mised to return within jive minutes. It was not possible,
I thought, that Talbot's eye, as he walked backward and
forward during that interval, could miss the paper, which
would not fail to appear as if dropped by his wife.

My timidity and conscious guilt hindered me from

JANE TALBOT. I9I

attempting to discover, by any direct means, the effects
of my artifice. I was mortified extremely in finding no
remarkable difference in their deportment to each other.
Sometimes I feared I had betrayed myself; but no altera-
tion ever afterwards appeared in their behaviour to me.

I know how little I deserve to be forgiven. Nothing
can palliate the baseness of this action. I acknow-
ledge it with the deepest remorse, and nothing, especially
since the death of Mr. Talbot, has lessened my grief, but
the hope that some unknown cause prevented the full
effect of this forgery on his peace, and that the secret,
carefully locked up in his own breast, expired with him.
All my enmities and restless jealousy found their repose
in the same grave.

You have come to the knowledge of this letter, and I
now find that the fraud was attended with even more
success than I wished it to have.

Let me now, though late, put an end to the illusion,
and again assure you, madam, that the concluding para-
graphs were written by me, and that those parts of it
which truly belong to your daughter are perfectly innocent.

If it were possible for you to forgive my misconduct,
and to suffer this confession to go no further than the
evil has gone, you will confer as great a comfort as can
now be conferred on the unhappy M. Jessup.

LETTER XLIX.

To James Montford.

Philadelphia, December 9.
I WILL imagine, my friend, that you have read the
letter* which I have hastily transcribed. I will not stop
to tell you my reflections upon it, but shall hasten with
this letter to Mrs. Fielder. I might send it; but I have
grown desperate.

A final effort must be made for my own happiness and
that of Jane. From their own lips will I know my des-

* The preceding one.

192 JANE TALBOT.

tiny. I have conversed too long at a distance viritli this
austere lady. I will mark with my own eyes the effect
of this discovery. Perhaps the moment may prove a
yielding one. Finding me innocent in one respect, in
which her persuasion of my guilt was most strong, may
she not remit or soften her sentence on inferior faults ?
And what may be the influence of Jane's deportment,
when she touches my hand in a last adieu ?

I have complied with Miss Jessup's wish in one par-
ticular. I have sent her the letter which I got from
Hannah, unopened ; unread ; accompanied with a few
words, to this effect: —

"If you ever injured Mr. Talbot, your motives for
doing so entitle you to nothing but compassion, while
your present conduct lays claim, not only to forgiveness,
but to gratitude. The letter you intrust to me shall be
applied to no purpose but that which you proposed by
writing it. Enclosed is the paper you request, the seal
unbroken and its contents unread. In this, as in all
cases, I have no stronger wish than to act as

"Your tktje Friend."

And now, my friend, lay I down the pen for a few
hours, — hours the most important, perhaps, in my event-
ful life. Surely this interview with Mrs. Fielder will
decide my destiny. After it, I shall have nothing to hope.

I prepare for it with awe and trembling. The more
nearly it approaches, the more my heart falters. I sum-
mon up in vain a tranquil and steadfast spirit ; but per-
haps a walk in the clear air will be more conducive to
this end than a day's ruminations in my chamber.

I will take a walk.

*(C 5jc y^ yft 3fc ^

And am I then — but I will not anticipate. Let me
lead you to the present state of things without confusion.

With what different emotions did I use to approach
this house! "It still contains," thought I, as my waver-
ing steps brought me in sight of it, "all that I love; but
I enter not unceremoniously now. I find her not on the
accustomed sofa, eager to welcome my coming with
smiling affability and arms outstretched. No longer is

JANE TALBOT. 193

it home to me, nor she assiduous to please, familiarly
tender and anxiously fond, already assuming the con-
jugal privilege of studying my domestic ease."

I knocked, somewhat timorously, at the door, — a cere-
mony which I had long been in the habit of omitting :
but times are changed. I was afraid the melancholy
which was fast overshadowing me would still more unfit
me for what was coming; but, instead of dispelling it,
this very apprehension deepened my gloom.

Molly came to the door. She silently led me into a
parlour. The poor girl was in tears. My questions as
to the cause of her distress drew from her a very indis-
tinct and sobbing confession that Mrs. Fielder had been
made uneasy by Molly's going out so early in the morn-
ing ; had taken her daughter to task ; and, by employing
entreaties and remonstrances in turn,, had drawn from
her the contents of her letter to me and of my answer.

A strange, affecting scene had followed: indignation
and grief on the mother's part; obstinacy, irresolution,
sorrowful, reluctant penitence and acquiescence on the
side of the daughter ; a determination, tacitly concurred
in by Jane, of leaving the city immediately. Orders
were already issued for that purpose.

"Is Mrs. Fielder at home?"

"Yes."

"Tell her a gentleman would see her."

" She will ask, perhaps — Shall I tell her wJio ?"

"No — Yes. Tell her J wish to see her."

The poor girl looked very mournfully: — "She has
seen your answer which talks of your intention to visit
her. She vows she will not see you if you come."

" Gro, then, to J^ne, and tell her I would see her for
five minutes. Tell her openly; before her mother."

This message, as I expected, brought down Mrs. Fielder
alone. I never saw this lady before. There was a
struggle in her countenance between anger and patience ;
an awful and severe solemnity ; a slight and tacit notice
of me as she entered. We both took chairs without
speaking. After a moment's pause, —

"Mr. Golden, I presume."

"Yes, madam."
13

194 JANE TALBOT.

"You wish to see my daughter?"

"I was anxious, madam, to see you. My business
here chiefly lies with yow, — not Aer."

"With me, sir? And pray, what have you to propose
tome?"

"I have nothing to solicit, madam, but your patient
attention." (I saw the rising vehemence could scarcely
be restrained.) "I dare not hope for your favourable
ear: all I ask is an audience from you of a few minutes."

"This preface, sir," (her motions less and less con-
trollable,) "is needless. I have very few minutes to spare
at present. This roof is hateful to me while you are
under it. Say what you will, sir, and briefly as possible."

"No, madam ; thuB received, I have not fortitude enough
to say what I came to say. I merely entreat you to
peruse this letter."

"'Tis well, sir," (taking it, with some reluctance, and,
after eyeing the direction, putting it aside.) "And this
is all your business?"

"Let me entreat you, madam, to read it in my pre-
sence. Its contents nearly concern your happiness, and
will not leave mine unaffected."

She did not seem, at first, disposed to compliance, but
at length opened and read. What noble features has
this lady! I watched them, as she read, with great
solicitude, but discovered in them nothing that could
cherish my hope. All was stern and inflexible. No
wonder at the ascendency this spirit possesses over the
tender and flexible Jane !

She read with visible eagerness. The varying emotion
played with augmented rapidity over her face. Its ex-
pression became less severe, and some degree of softness,
I thought, mixed itself with those glances which re-
flection sometimes diverted from the letter. These
tokens somewhat revived my languishing courage.

After having gone through it, she returned; read
again and pondered over particular passages. At length,
after some pause, she spoke; but her indignant eye
scarcely condescended to point the address to me : —

"As a mother and a woman I cannot but rejoice at
this discovery. To find my daughter les% guilty than

JANE TALBOT. I9S

appearances led me to believe, cannot but console me
under the conviction of her numerous errors. Would to
Heaven she would stop here in her career of folly and
imprudence !

" I cannot but regard you, sir, as the author of much
misery. Still, it is in your power to act as this deluded
woman, Miss Jessup, has acted. You may desist from
any future persecution. Your letter to me gave me no
reason to expect the honour of this visit, and contained
something like a promise to shun any further intercourse
with Mrs. Talbot."

" I hope, madam, the contents of this letter will justify
me in bringing it to you?"

" Perhaps it has ; but that commission is performed.
That, I hope, is all you proposed by coming hither ; and
you will pardon me if I plead an engagement for not de-
taining you longer in this house."

I had no apology for prolonging my stay, yet I was
irresolute. She seemed impatient at my lingering;
again urged her engagements. I rose ; took my hat ;
moved a few steps towards the door ; hesitated.

At length I stammered out, " Since it is the last — the
last interview — if I were allowed — but one moment."

"No, no, no! what but needless torment to herself
and to you can follow? What do you expect from an
interview?"

"I would see, for a moment, the face of one whom,
whatever be my faults, and whatever be /iers, I love."

"Yes; you would profit, no doubt, by your power over
this infatuated girl. I know what a rash proposal she
has made you, and you seek her presence to insure her
adherence to it."

Her vehemence tended more to bereave me of courage
than of temper, but I could not forbear (mildly, however)
reminding her that if I had sought to take advantage of
her daughter's offer, the easiest and most obvious method
was different from that which I had taken.

"True," said she, her eyes flashing fire; "a secret
marriage would have given you the destitute and -portion-
less girl ; but your views are far more solid and substantial.
You know your power over her, and aim at extorting

196 JANE TALBOT.

from compassion for my child \yhat — But why do I ex-
change a word with you? Mrs. Talbot knows not that
you ar« here. She has just given me the strongest proof
of compunction for every past folly, and especially the
lait. She has bound herself to go along with me. If
your professions of regard for her be sincere, you will
not increase her difficulties. I command you, I implore
you, to leave the house."

I should not have resisted these entreaties on my own
account. Yet to desert her — to be thought by her to
have coldly and inhumanly rejected her offers !

"In your presence, madam — I ask not privacy — let
her own lips confirm the sentence; be renunciation her
own act. For the sake of her peace of mind "

"God give me patience!" said the exasperated lady.
" How securely do you build on her infatuation ! But'
you shall not see her. If she consents to see you, I
never will forgive her. If she once more relapses, she
is undone. She shall write her mind to you : let that
serve. I will permit her — I will urge her — to write to
you: let that serve."

I went to this house with a confused perception that
this visit would terminate my suspense. " One more in-
terview with Jane," thought I, "and no more fluctuations
or uncertainty." Yet I was now as far as ever from
certainty. Expostulation was vain. She would not
hear me. All my courage, even my words were over-
whelmed by her vehemence.

After much hesitation, and several efforts to gain even
a hearing of my pleas, I yielded to the tide. With a
drooping heart, I consented to withdraw with my dearest
hope unaccomplished.

My steps involuntarily brought me back to my lodgings.
Here am I again at my pen. Never were \b.^ spirits
lower, my prospects more obscure, my hopes nearer to
extinction.

I am afraid to allow you too near a view of my heart
at this moment of despondency. My present feelings
are new even to myself. They terrify me. I must not
trust myself longer alone. I must shake off, or try to
shake off, this excruciating, this direful melancholy.

JANE TALBOT. I97

Heavy, heavy is my soul ; comfortless and friendless my
condition. Nothing is sweet but the prospect of oblivion.
But, again I say, these thoughts must not lead me.
Dreadful and downward is the course to which they point.
I must relinquish the pen. I must sally forth into the
fields. Naked and bleak is the face of nature at this
inclement season; but what of that? Dark and deso-
late will ever be my world — but I will not write another
word.

******

So, my friend, I have returned from my walk with a
mind more a stranger to tranquillity than when I sallied
forth. On my table lay the letter, which, ere I seal
this, I will enclose to you. Read it here.

LETTER L.

To Mr. Golden.

December 11.

Heeeafter I shall be astonished at nothing but that
credulity which could give even momentary credit to
^our assertions.

-^ Most fortunately, my belief lasted only till you left
The house. Then my scruples, which slept for a moment,
revived, and I determinedj^cju-clear up my doubts by
^immediately calling on(1^s JessupTj
\ If any thing can exc^3r-yettr"depravity, sir, it is your
folly. But I will not debase myself: my indignation at
being made the subject, and, for some minutes, the dupe,
of so CTOss and so profligate an artifice , carries me beyond
all bounds. What, sir ! — But I will restrain myself.

I would not leave the city without apprizing you of
this detection of your schemes. If Miss Jessup were
wise, she would seek a just revenge for so atrocious a
slander.

I need not tell you that I have seen her ; laid the letter
before her which you delivered to me ; nor do I need to
tell you what her anger and amazement were on finding
her name thus abused.

198 JANE TALBOT.

I pity you, sir ; I grieve for you : you have talents of a
certain kind, but your habits, wretchedly and flagitiously
perverse, have made you act on most occasions like an
idiot. Their iniquity was not sufficient to deter you from
impostures which — but I scorn to chide you.

My daughter is a monument of the success of your
schemes. But their success shall never be complete.
While I live, she shall never join her interests with yours.
That is a vow which, I thank God, I am able to accom-
plish ; and shall. H. Fielder.

LETTER LI.
To James Montford.

Deeember 13.

^ Is not this strange, my friend ? Miss Jessup, it seems,
has denied her own letter. Surely there was no mistake,
— no mystery. Let me look again at the words in the
cover.

Let me awake ! Let me disabuse my senses ! Yes.
It is plain. Miss Jessup repented her of her confession,
goiflgthi ng in that unope ned letter — believing the con-
fenta fvF^ ^Aryi l^nQwiu-fehe re were iqiiufiPTiipp ta t*? sinrfirity
' wMclTthe reco jLerJjL-of that lettei\and-ih£- fin din g it ii n-
^openedj perhaps annihilated. Pride resumed its power.
Before so partial a judge as Mrs. Fielder, and concerning
a wretch so worthy of discredit as I, how easy, how ob-
vious to deny, and to impute to me the imposture charged
on herself!

Well, and what is now to be done ? I will once more
return to Miss Jessup. I will force myself into her pre-
sence, and then But I have not a moment to lose.

*****

And this was the night, this was the hour, that was to
see my Jane's hand wedded to mine ! That event Provi-
dence, or fate, or fortune, stepped in to forbid. And
must it then pass away like any vulgar hour ?

It deserves to be signalized, to be made memorable.
What forbids but sordid, despicable cowardice ? Not vir-

JANE TALBOT. 1 99

tue ; not the love of universal happiness ; not piety ; not
Bense of duty to my God or my fellow-creatures. These
sentiments, alas ! burn feebly or not at all within my
bosom.

It is not hope that restrains my hand. For what is
my hope ? Independence, dignity, a life of activity and
usefulness, are not within my reach. And why not?
What obstacles arise in the way ?

Have I not youth, health, knowledge, talents ? Twenty
professional roads are open before me, and solicit me to
enter them ; but no. I shall never enter any of them.
Be all earthly powers combined to force me into the right
path, — the path of duty, honour, and interest: they
strive in vain.

And whence this incurable folly? — this rooted inca-
pacity of acting as every motive, generous and selfish,
combine to recommend? Constitution; habit; insanity;
the dominion of some evil spirit, who insinuates his bane-
ful power between the will and the act.

And this more congenial good; this feminine excel-
lence ; this secondary and more valuable self; this woman
who has appropriated to herself every desire, every emo-
tion of my soul : what hope remains with regard to her ?
Shall I live for her sake?

No. Her happiness requires me to be blotted out of
existence. Let me unfold myself to myself; let me ask
my soul. Canst thou wish to be rejected, renounced, and
forgotten by Jane ? Does it please thee that her happi-
ness should be placed upon a basis absolutely independent
of thy lot? Canst thou, with a true and fervent zeal,
resign her to her mother?

I can. I do.

I wish I had words, my friend : yet why do I wish for
them ? Why sit I here, endeavouring to give form, sub-
stance, and duration to images to which it is guilty and
opprobrious to allow momentary place in my mind ? Why
do I thus lay up, for the few that love me, causes of af-
fliction ?

Yet perhaps I accuse myself too soon. The persua-
sion that I have one friend is sweet. I fancy myself

200 JANE TALBOT.

talking to one -who is interested in my happiness ; but
this shall satisfy me. If fate impel me to any rash and
irretrievable act, I will take care that no legacy of sorrow
shall be left to my survivors. My fate shall be buried in
oblivion. No busy curiosity, no affectionate zeal, shall
trace the way that I have gone. No mourning footsteps
shall haunt my grave.

I am, indeed, my friend — never, never before, spiritless
and even hopeless as I have sometimes been, have my
thoughts been thus gloomy. Never felt I so enamoured
of that which seems to be the cure-all.

Often have I wished to slide obscurely and quietly intc
the grave ; but this wish, while it saddened my bosom,
never raised my hand against my life. It made me will-
ingly expose my safety to the blasts of pestilence; it
made me court disease ; but it never set my imagination
in search after more certain and speedy means.

Yet I am wonderfully calm. I can still reason on the
folly of despair. I know that a few days, perhaps a few
hours, will bring me some degree of comfort and courage ;
will make life, with all its disappointments and vexations,
endurable at least.

Would to Heaven I were not quite alone ! Left thus
to my greatest enemy, myself, I feel that I am capable
of deeds which I fear to name.

A few minutes ago I was anxious to find Miss Jessup ;
to gain another interview with Mrs. Fielder. Both the
one and the other have left the city. Jane's dwelling is
deserted. Shortly after I left it, they set out upon their
journey, and Miss Jessup — no doubt, to avoid another
interview with me — has precipitately withdrawn into the
country.

I shall not pursue their steps. Let things take their
course. No doubt, a lasting and effectual remorse will,
some time or other, reach tlie heart of Miss Jessup, and
this fatal error will be rectified. I need not live, I need
not exert myself, to hasten the discovery. I can do
nothing.

JANE TALBOT. 201

LETTER LIT.
To Mrs. Fielder.

Philadelphia, December 16.

It is not improbable that, as soon as you recognise the
hand that wrote this letter, you will throw it unread into
the fire ; yet it comes not to soothe resentment, or to sup-
plicate for mercy. It seeks not a favourable audience.
It wishes not — because the wish would be chimerical — to
have its assertions believed. It expects not even to be
read. All I hope is, that, though neglected, despised,
and discredited for the present, it may not be precipi-
tately destroyed or utterly forgotten. The time will
come when it will be read with a different spirit.

You inform me that Miss Jessup has denied her letter,
and imputes to me the wickedness of forging her name
to a false confession. You are justly astonished at the
iniquity and folly of what you deem my artifice. This
astonishment, when you look back upon my past miscon-
duct, is turned from me to yourself; from my folly to your
own credulity, that was, for a moment, made the dupe of
my contrivances.

I can say nothing that will or that ought — that is my
peculiar misery, — that ought, considering the measure
of my real guilt, to screen me from this charge. There
is but one event that can shake your opinion. An event
that is barely possible ; that may not happen, if it happen
at all, till the lapse of years ; and from which, even if I
were alive, I could not hope to derive advantage. Miss
Jessup's conscience may awaken time enough to enable
her to undeceive you, and to repent of her second as well
as her first fraud.

If that event ever takes place, perhaps this letter may
still exist to bear testimony to my rectitude. Thrown
aside and long forgotten, or never read, chance may put
it in your way once more. Time, that soother of resent-
ment as well as lessener of love, and the perseverance of
your daughter in the way you prescribe, may soften your
asperities even towards me. A generous heart like yours

202 JANE TALBOT.

•will feel an emotion of joy that I hare not been quite as
guilty as you had reason to believe.

Give me leave, madam, to anticipate that moment. The
number of my consolations are few. Your enmity I rank
among my chief misfortunes, and the more so because I
deserve much, though not all your enmity. The persua-
sion that the time will come when you will acquit me of
this charge, is, even now, a comforter. This is more de-
sirable to me, since it will relieve your daughter from
one among the many evils in which she has been involved
by the vices and infirmities of H. Golden.

LETTER LIII.

To James Montford.

Philadelphia, December 17.

I SOUGHT relief a second time to my drooping heart, by
a walk in the fields. Returning, I met Harriet Thomson
in the street. The meeting was somewhat unexpected.
Since we parted at Baltimore, I imagined she had re-
turned to her old habitation in Jersey. I knew she was
pretty much a stranger in this city. Night had already
come on, and she was alone. She greeted me with visible
satisfaction ; and, though I was very little fit for society,
especially of those who loved me not, I thought common
civility required me to attend her home.

I never saw this woman till I met her lately at her
brother's bedside. Her opinions of me were all derived
from unfavourable sources, and I knew, from good author-
ity, that she regarded me as a dangerous and hateful
character. I had even, accidentally, heard her opinion
of the aifair between Jane and me. Jane was severely
censured for credulity and indiscretion, but some excuse
was allowed to her on the score of the greater guilt that
was placed to my account.

Her behaviour, when we first met, was somewhat con-
formable to these impressions. A good deal of coldness
and reserve in her deportment, which I was sometimes
sorry for, as she seems an estimable creature ; meek, aflfec-

JANE TALBOT. 203

tionate, tender, passionately loving her brother; con-
vinced, from the hour of her first arrival, that his disease
was a hopeless one, yet exerting a surprising command
over her feelings, and performing every office of a nurse
with skill and firmness.

Insensibly the distance between us grew less. A par-
ticipation in the same calamity, and the counsel and aid
which her situation demanded, forced her to lay aside
some of her reserve. Still, however, it seemed but a
submission to necessity; and all advances were made
with an ill grace.

She was often present when her brother turned the dis-
course upon religious subjects. I have long since abjured
the vanity of disputation. There is no road to truth but by
meditation, — severe, intense, candid, and dispassionate.
What others say on doubtful subjects, I shall henceforth
lay up as materials for meditation.

I listened to my dying friend's arguments and admoni-
tions, I think I may venture to say, with a suitable spirit.
The arrogant or disputatious passions could not possibly
find place in a scene like this. Even if I thought him
in the wrong, what but brutal depravity could lead me to
endeavour to shake his belief at a time when sickness had
made his judgment infirm, and when his opinion supplied
his sinking heart with confidence and joy ?

But, in truth, I was far from thinking him in the wrong.
At any time I should have allowed infinite plausibility and
subtlety to his reasonings, and at this time I confessed
them to be weighty. Whether they were most weighty
in the scale could be only known by a more ample and
deliberate view and comparison than it was possible, with
the spectacle of a dying friend before me, and with so
many solicitudes and suspenses about me respecting Jane,
to bestow on them. Meanwhile, I treasured them up, and
determined, as I told him, that his generous efforts for
my good should not be thrown away.

At first, his sister was very uneasy when her brother
entered on the theme nearest to his friendly heart. She
seemed apprehensive of dispute and contradiction. This
apprehension was quickly removed, and she thenceforth
encouraged the discourse. She listened with delight and

204 JANE TALBOT.

eagerness, and her eye, frequently, when my friend's elo-
quence was most affecting, appealed to me. It sometimes
conveyed a meaning far more powerful than her brother's
lips, and expressed at once the strongest conviction of the
truth of his words, and the most fervent desire that they
might convince me. Her natural modesty, joined, no
doubt, to her disesteem of my character, prevented her
from mixing in discourse.

She greeted me at this meeting with a frankness which
I did not expect. A disposition to converse, and atten-
tiveness to the few words that I had occasion to say, were
very evident. I was just then in the most dejected and
forlorn state imaginable. My heart panted for some
friendly bosom, into which I might pour my cares. I
had reason to esteem the purity, sweetness, and amiable
qualities of this good girl. Her aversion to me naturally
flowed from these qualities, while an abatement of that
aversion was flattering to me, as the triumph of feeling
over judgment.

I should have left her at the door of her lodgings, but
she besought me to go in so earnestly, that my facility,
rather than my inclination, complied. She saw that I was
absent and disturbed. I never read compassion and (shall
I say ?) good-will in any eye more distinctly than in hers.

The conversation for a time was vague and trite. In-
sensibly, the scenes lately witnessed were recalled, not
without many a half-stifled sigh and ill-disguised tear on
her part. Some arrangements as to the letters and papers
of her brother were suggested. I expressed a wish to
have my letters restored to me ; I alluded to those letters,
written in the sanguine insolence of youth and with the
dogmatic rage upon me, that have done me so much mis-
chief with Mrs. Fielder. I had not thought of them
before; but now it occurred to me that they might as
well be destroyed.

This insensibly led the conversation into more interest-
ing topics. I could not suppress my regret that I had
ever written some things in those letters, and informed
her that my view in taking them back was to doom them
to that oblivion from which it would have been happy for
me if they never had been called.

JANE TALBOT. 20$

After many tacit intimations, much reluctance and
timidity to inquire and communicate, I was greatly sur-
prised to discover that these letters had been seen by
her ; that Mrs. Fielder's character was not unknown to
her ; that she was no stranger to her brother's disclosures
to that lady.

Without directly expressing her thoughts, it was easy
to perceive that her mind was full of ideas produced by
these letters, by her brother's discourse, and by curiosity
as to my present opinions. Her modesty laid restraint
on her lips. She was fearful, I supposed, of being
thought forward and impertinent.

I endeavoured to dissipate these apprehensions. All
about this girl was, on this occasion, remarkably attractive.
I loved her brother, and his features still survive in her.
The only relation she has left is a distant one, on whose
regard and protection she has therefore but slender claims.
Her mind is rich in all the graces of ingenuousness and
modesty. The curiosity she felt respecting me made me
grateful as for a token of regard. I was therefore not
backward to unfold the true state of my mind.

Now, and then she made seasonable and judicious com-
ments on what I said. Was there any subject of inquiry
more momentous than the truth of religion ? If my doubts
and heresies had involved me in difficulties, was not the
remedy obvious and easy ? Why not enter on regular dis-
cussions, and, having candidly and deliberately formed
my creed, adhere to it frankly, firmly, and consistently ?
A state of doubt and indecision was, in every view, hurt-
ful, criminal, and ignominious. Conviction, if it were in
favour of religion, would insure me every kind of happi-
ness. It would forward even those schemes of temporal
advantage on which I might be intent. It would recon-
cile those whose aversion arose from difference of opinion ;
and in cases where it failed to benefit my worldly views,
it would console me for my disappointment.

If my inquiries should establish an irreligious convic-
tion, still, any form of certainty was better than doubt.
The love of truth and the consciousness of that certainty
would raise me above hatred and slander. I should then
have some kind of principle by which to regulate my

206 JANE TALBOT.

conduct; I should then know on what foundation to
build. To fluctuate, to waver, to postpone inquiry, was
more criminal than any kind of opinion candidly inves-
tigated and firmly adopted, and would more effectually
debar me from happiness. At my age, with my talents
and inducements, it was sordid, it was ignoble, it was
culpable, to allow indifference or indolence to slacken my
zeal.

These sentiments were conveyed in various broken
hints and modest interrogatories. While they mortified,
they charmed me ; they enlightened me while they per-
plexed. I came away with my soul roused by a new
impulse. I have emerged from a dreary torpor, not in-
deed to tranquillity or happiness, but to something less
fatal, less dreadful.

Would you think that a ray of hope has broken in
upon me? Am I not still, in some degree, the maker
of my fortune ? Why mournfully ruminate on the past,
instead of looking to the future ? How wretched, how
criminal, how infamous, are my doubts !

Alas ! and is this the first time that I have been vinited
by such thoughts ? How often has this transient hope,
this momentary zeal, started into being, hovered in my
fancy, and vanished ! Thus will it ever be.

Need I mention — but I will not look back. To what
end ? Shall I grieve or rejoice at that power of now
and then escaping from the past ? Could it operate to
my amendment, memory should be ever busy ; but I fear
that it would only drive me to desperation or madness.

H. C.

LETTER LTV.

Philadelphia, December 19.

I HAVE just returned from a visit to my new friend.
I begin to think that if I had time to cultivate her good
opinion I should gain as much of it as I deserve. Her
good-will, her sympathy at least, might be awakened in
my favour.

We have had a long conversation. Her distance and

JANE TALBOT. 20/

reserve are much less than they were. She blames yet
pities me. I have been very communicative, and have
offered her the perusal of all the letters that I have
lately received from Mrs. Talbot as vouchers for my
sincerity.

She listened favourably to my account of the unhappy
misapprehensions into which Mrs. Fielder had fallen.
She was disposed to be more severe on Miss Jessup's
imposture than even my irritated passions had been.

She would not admit that Mrs. Fielder's antipathy to
my alliance with her daughter was without just grounds.
She thought that everlasting separation was best for us
both. A total change of my opinions on moral subjects
might perhaps, in time, subdue the mother's aversion to
me ; but this change must necessarily be slow and gra-
dual. I was indeed already, from my own account, far
from being principled against religion ; but this was only
a basis whereon to build the hope of future amendment.
No present merit could be founded on my doubts.

I spared not myself in my account of former follies.
The recital made her very solemn. I had — I had, in-
deed, been very faulty ; my present embarrassments were
the natural and just consequences of my misconduct. I
had not merited a different destiny. I was unworthy
of the love of such a woman as Jane. I was not quali-
fied to make her happy. I ought to submit to banish-
ment, not only as to a punishment justly incurred, but in
gratitude to one whose genuine happiness, taking into
view her mother's character and the sacrifices to which
her choice of me would subject her, would be most effec-
tually consulted by my exile.

This was an irksome lesson. She had the candour not
to expect my cordial concurrence in such sentiments, yet
endeavoured in her artless manner to enforce them. She
did not content herself with placing the matter in this
light. She still continued to commend the design of a
distant voyage, even should I intend one day to return.
The scheme was likely to produce health and pleasure to
me. It offered objects which a rational curiosity must
hold dear. The interval might not pass away unpro-
pitiously to me. Time might effect desirable changes in

2o8 JANE TALBOT.

Mrs. Fielder's sentiments and views. A thousand acci-
dents miglit occur to level those obstacles -which were
now insuperable. Pity and complacency might succeed
to abhorrence and scorn. Gratitude and admiration for
the patience, meekness, and self-sacrifices of the daughter
might gradually bring about the voluntary surrender of
her enmities; besides, that event must one day come
which will place her above the influence of all mortal
cares and passions.

These conversations have not been without their influ-
ence. Yes, my friend, my mind is less gloomy and
tumultuous than it was. I look forward to this voyage
with stronger hopes.

Methinks I would hear once more from Jane. Could
she be persuaded cheerfully to acquiesce in her mother's
will ; reserve herself for fortunate contingencies ; confide
in my fidelity ; and find her content in the improvement
of her time and fortune, in befriending the destitute,
relieving, by her superfluities, the needy, and consoling
the afllicted by her sympathy, advice, and succour, would
she not derive happiness from these sources, though dis-
appointed in the wish nearest her heart ?

Might I not have expected a letter ere this ? But she'
knows not where I am, — probably imagines me at my
father's house. Shall I not venture to write ? a last and
long farewell ? Yet have I not said already all that the
occasion will justify? But, if I would write, I know
not how to address her. It seems she has not gone to
New York. Her mother has a friend in Jersey, whither
she prevailed on Jane to accompany her. I suppose it
would be no arduous undertaking to trace her footsteps
and gain an interview, and perhaps I shall find the
temptation irresistible.

Stephen has just now told me, by letter, that he sails
in ten days. There will be time enough to comply with
your friendly invitation. My sister and you may expect
to see me by Saturday night. In the arms of my true
friends, I will endeavour to forget the vexations that at
present prey upon the peace of Your H. C.

JANE TALBOT. 209

LETTER LV.
To Henry Colden.

My mother allows me, and even requires me, to write
to you. My reluctance to do so is only overcome by
the fear of her displeasure ; yet do not mistake me, my
friend. Infer not from this reluctance that the resolu-
tion of being henceforward all that my mother wishes
can be altered by any effort of yours.

Alas ! how vainly do I boast my inflexibility ! My
safety lies only in filling my ears with my mother's re-
^nonstrances and shutting them against your persuasive
accents. I have therefore resigned myself wholly to my
mother's government. I have consented to be inacces-
^sible to your visits or letters.

I have few claims on your gratitude or generosity ; yet
may I not rely on the humanity of your temper ? To
what frequent and severe tests has my caprice already
subjected your affection ! and has it not remained un-
shaken and undiminished ? Let me hope that you will
^ot withhold this last proof of your affection for me.

It would greatly console me to know that you are
once more on filial and friendly terms with your father.
Let me persuade you to return to him ; to beseech his
favour. I hope the way to reconcilement has already
been paved by the letter jointly addressed to him by my
mother and myself; that nothing is wanting but a sub-
missive and suitable deportment on your part, to restore
you to the station you possessed before you had any
knowledge of me. Let me exact from you this proof of
your regard for me. It is the highest proof which it
will henceforth be in your power to offer, or that can
ever be received by Jane Talbot.

14

2IO JANE TALBOT.

LETTER LVI.
To Mrs. 3fontford.
Madam : Philadelphia, October 7.

It is with extreme reluctance that I venture to address
you in this manner. I cannot find words to account for
or apologize. But, if you be indeed the sister of Henry
Golden, you cannot be ignorant of me, and of former
transactions between us, and especially the circumstance
that now compels me to write : you can be no stranger
to his present situation.

Can you forgive this boldness in an absolute stranger
to your person but not to your virtues ? I have heard
much of you, from one in whom I once had a little inte-
rest; who honoured me with his aifection.

I know that you lately possessed a large share of that
affection. I doubt not that you still retain it, and are
able to tell me what has become of him.

I have a long time struggled with myself and my fears
in silence. I know how unbecoming this address must
appear to you, and yet, persuaded that my character and
my relation to your brother are well known to you, I
have been able to curb my anxieties no longer.

Do then, my dearest madam, gratify my curiosity, anci!\\
tell me, without delay, what has become of your brotherJ)

J. Talbot.

LETTER LVIL
To Jane Talbot.

Mt DEAK Madam : — New York, October 9.

You judge truly when you imagine that your character
and history are not unknown to me; and such is my
opinion of you, that there is probably no person in the
world more solicitous for your happiness, and more de-
sirous to answer any inquiries in a manner agreeable to
you.

JANE TALBOT. 211

Mr. Golden lias made no secret to us of the relation
in Yrhich he stood to you. We are well acquainted with
the cause of your late separation. AVill you excuse me
for expressing the deep regret which that event gave me ?
That regret is the deeper, since the measures which he
immediately adopted have put it out of his power to
profit by any change in your views.

My husband's brother being on the point of embark-
ing in a voyage to the western coast of America and to
China, Mr. Golden prevailed upon his friends to permit
him to embark also, as a joint adventurer in the voyage.
5hey have been gone already upwards of a year. We
have not heard of them since their touching at Tobago
and Brazil.

The voyage will be very tedious ; but, as it will open
scenes of great novelty to the mind of our friend, and
as it may not be unprofitable to him, we were the more
easily disposed to acquiesce.

Permit me, madam, to profier you my warmest esteem
and my kindest services. Your letter I regard as a flatter-
ing proof of your good opinion, which I shall be most
happy to deserve and to improve, by answering every
inquiry you may be pleased to make respecting one for
whom I have entertained the affection becoming a sister.
I am, &c. M. MoNTFOED.

P.S. — Mr. Montford desires to join me in my offers of
service, and in my good wishes.

LETTER LVIII.
To Mrs. Montford.

Philadelphia, October 12.

Dear Madam: —

How shall I thank you for the kind and delicate manner
in which you have complied with my request ? You will
not be surprised, nor, I hope, offended, that I am em-
boldened to address you once more.

I see that I need not practise towards you a reserve at
all times foreign to my nature, and now more painful

212 JANE TALBOT.

than at any other time, as my soul is torn with emotions
■which I am at liberty to disclose to no other human crea-
ture. Will you be my friend ? Will you permit me to
claim your sympathy and consolation? As I told you
before, I am thoroughly acquainted with your merits,
and one of the felicities which I promised myself from a
nearer alliance with Mr. Golden was that of numbering
myself among your friends.

You have deprived me of some hope by the informa-
tion you give; but you have at least put an end to a
suspense more painful than the most dreadful certainty
could be.

You say that you know all our concerns. In pity to
my weakness, will you give me some particulars of my
friend? I am extremely anxious to know many things
in your power to communicate.

Perhaps you know the contents of my last letter to
him, and of his answer. I know you condemn me. You
think me inconsiderate and cruel in writing such a letter ;
and my heart does not deny the charge. Yet my motives
were not utterly ungenerous. I could not bear to reduce
the man I loved to poverty, i could not bear that he
should incur the vlultiuce aird curses of his father. I
fondly thought myself the only obstacle to reconcile-
ment, and was willing, whatever it cost me, to remove
that obstacle.

What will become of me, if my fears should now be
realized? — if the means which I used with no other view
than to reconcile him to his family should have driven
him away from them and from his country forever ? I
thank my God that I was capable of abandoning him on
no selfish or personal account. The maledictions of my
own mother ; the scorn of the world ; the loss of friends,
reputation, and fortune, weighed nothing with me. Great
as these evils were, I could have cheerfully sustained
them for his sake. What I did was in oblivion of self;
was from a duteous regard to his genuine and lasting
happiness. Alas ! I have, perhaps, mistaken the means,
and cruel will, I fear, be the penalty of my error.

Tell me, my dear friend, was not Golden reconciled to
his father before he went? When does he mean to re-

JANE TALBOT. 213

turn ? What said he, Tvhat thought he, of mj conduct ?
Did he call me ungrateful and capricious? Did he vow
never to see or think of me more?

I have regarded the promise that I made to the elder
Golden, and to my mother, as sa cred. The decease of
(he latter h aa, lit my own opinion, absolved ^w- ^'roTn a.ny
obligation except that of promoting my ownhappiness
andrHhatufibira^wj&Qiarlllove. rsEalTnot woiiTrecnice
fefnrto indigence, and, that consequence being precluded,
I cannot doubt of his father's acquiescence.

Ah, dear madam, I should not have been so long pa-
tient, had I not, as it now appears, been lulled into a
fatal mistake I could not taste repose till I was, as I
thought, certainly informed that he continued to reside
in his father's house. This proof of reconciliation, and
the silence which, though so near him, he maintained
towards me, both before and subsequently to my mother's
death, contributed to persuade me that his condition was
not unhappy, and especially that either his resentment
or his prudence had made him dismiss me from his
thoughts.

I have lately, to my utter astonishment, discovered that
Golden, immediately after his last letter to me, went upon
some distant voyage, whence, though a twelvemonth has
since passed, he has not yet returned. Hence the bold-
ness of this address to you, whom I know only by rumour.

You will, I doubt not, easily imagine to yourself my
feelings, and will be good enough to answer my inquiries,
if you have any compassion for your J. T.

LETTER LIX.

To Jane Talbot.

New York, Ootobei 15.
I HASTEN, my dear madam, to reply to your letter.
The part you have assigned me I will most cheerfully
perform to the utmost of my power, but very much re-
gret that I have not more agreeable tidings to communi-
cate.

214 JANE TALBOT.

Having said that all the transactions between you and
my brother are known to me, I need not apologize for
alluding to events, which I could not excuse myself for
doing without being encouraged by the frankness and
solicitude which your own pen has expressed.

Immediately after the determination of his fate in re-
gard to you, he came to this city. He favoured us with
the perusal of your letters. We entirely agreed with
him in applauding the motives which influenced your con-
duct. We had no right to accuse you of precipitation
or inconsistency. That heart must indeed be selfish and
cold which could not comprehend the horror which must
have seized you on hearing of his father's treatment.
You acted, in the first tumults of your feelings, as every
woman would have acted. That you did not immediately
perceive the little prospect there was that a breach of
this nature would be repaired, or that Golden would make
use of your undesired and unsought-for renunciation aa
a means of reconcilement with his father, was no subject
of surprise or blame. These reflections could not occur
to you but in consequence of some intimations from
others.

Henry Golden was no indolent or mercenary creature.
No one more cordially detested the life of dependence than
he. He always thought that his father had discharged
all the duties of that relation in nourishing his childhood
and giving him a good education. Whatever has been since
bestowed, he considered as voluntary and unrequited
bounty ; has received it with irksomeness and compunc-
tion ; and, whatever you may think of the horrors of
indigence, it was impossible to have placed him in a more
painful situation than under his father's roof.

We could not but deeply regret the particular circum-
stances under which he left his father's house ; but the
mere leaving it, and the necessity which thence arose of
finding employment and subsistence for himself, was not
at all to be regretted.

The consequences of your mother's letter to the father
produced no resentment in the son. He had refused what
he had a right to refuse, and what had been pressed upon
the giver rather than sought by him. The mere separa-

JANE TALBOT. 21$

tion was agreeable to Golden, and the rage that accom-
panied it was excited by the young man's steadiness in
his fidelity to you.

You were not aware that this cause of anger could not
be removed by any thing done by you. Golden was not
sensible of any fault. There was nothing, therefore, for
which he could crave pardon. Blows and revilings had
been patiently endured, but he was actuated by no tame
or servile spirit. He never would expose himself to new
insults. Though always ready to accept apology and
grant an oblivion of the past, he never would avow com-
punction which he did not feel, or confess that he had
deserved the treatment which he had received.

All this it was easy to suggest to your reflections, and
I endeavoured to persuade him to write a second letter ;
but he would not. "No," said he, "she has made her
election. If no advantage is taken of her tenderness
and pity, she will be happy in her new scheme. Shall I
subject her to new trials, new mortifications ? Can I
flatter myself with being able to reward her by my love
for the loss of every other comfort ? No. Whatever she
feels for me, /am not her supreme passion. Her mother
is preferred to me. That her present resolution puts out
of all doubt. All upbraiding and repining from me would
be absurd. What can I say in favour of my attachment
to her, which she may not, with equal reason, urge in
favour of her attachment to her mother ? The happi-
ness of one or other must be forfeited. Shall I not rather
offer than demand the sacrifice ? And what are my boasts
of magnanimity if I do not strive to lessen the difficul-
ties of her choice, and persuade her that, in gratifying
her mother, she inflicts no exquisite or lasting misery
on me?

"lam not so blind but that I can foresee the effects
on my tranquillity of time and variety of object. If I
go this voyage, I may hope to acquire resignation much
sooner than by staying at home. To leave these shores
is, in every view, best for me. I can do nothing, while
here, for my own profit, and every eye I meet humbles
and distresses me. At present, I do not wish ever to
return; but I suppose the absence and adventures of a

2l6 JANE TALBOT.

couple of years may change my feelings in that respect.
My condition, too, by some chance, may be bettered. I
may come bacli, and offer myself to her, without offering
poverty and contempt at the same time. Time, or some
good fortune, may remove the mother's prejudices. All
this is possible ; but, if it never takes place, if my con-
dition never improves, I will never return home."

When we urged to him the propriety of apprizing you
of his views, not only for your sake, but for his own, —
"What need is there? Has she not prohibited all inter-
course between us ? Have I not written the last letter
she will consent to receive ? On my own account, I have
nothing to hope. I have stated my return as a mere
possibility. I do not believe I shall ever return. If I
did expect it, I know Jane too well to have any fears of
her fidelity. While I am living, or as long as my death
is uncertain, her heart will be mine, and she will reserve
herself for me."

I know you will excuse me, madam, for being thus
particular. I thought it best to state the views of our
friend in his own words. From these your judgment will
enable you to form the truest conclusions.

The event that has since happened has probably re-
moved the only obstacle to your mutual happiness ; nor
am I without the hope of seeing him one day return to
be made happy by your favour. As several passages
were expected to be made between China and Nootka,
that desirable event cannot be expected to be very near.

M. M.

LETTER LX.

To Mrs. Montford.

Philadelphia, October 20.

Ah, dear madam ! how much has your letter afflicted,
how much has it consoled me !

You have then some hope of his return ; but, you say,
'twill be a long time first. He has gone where I cannot
follow him ; to the end of the world ; where even a letter

JANE TALBOT. 21/

cannot find him ; into unwholesome climates ; through
dangerous elements; among savages

Alas ! I have no hope. Among so many perils, it can-
not be expected that he should escape. And did he not
say that he meant not to return ?

Yet one thing consoles me. He left not his curses or
reproaches on my head. Kindly, generously, and justly
didst thou judge of my fidelity, Henry. While thou
livest, and as long as I live, will I cherish thy image.

I am coming to pass the winter in your city. I adopt
this scheme merely because it will give me your company.
I feel as if you were the only friend I have in the world.
Do not think me forward or capricious. I will not deny
that you owe your place in my afiections chiefly to your
relation to the wanderer ; but no matter whence my at-
tachment proceeds. I feel that it is strong ; merely self-
ish, perhaps ; the child of a distracted fancy; the prop on
which a sinking heart relies in its uttermost extremity.

Reflection stings me to the quick, but it does not deny
me some consolation. The memory of my mother calls
forth tears, but they are not tears of bitterness. To her,
at least, I have not been deficient in dutiful observance.
I have sacrificed my friend and myself, but it was to her
peace. The melancholy of her dying scene will ever be
cheered in my remembrance by her gratitude and bless^
ing. Her last words were these : — /

" Thou hast done much for me, my child. I begin tos
fear that I have exacted too much. Your sweetness, youi/
patience, have wrung my heart with compunction.

"I have wronged thee, Jane. I have wronged the ab-'
sent ; I greatly fear, I have. Forgive me. If you ever
meet, entreat him to forgive me, and recompense your-
self and him for all your mutual sufferings.

" I hope all, though sorrowful, has been for the best.
I hope that angelic sweetness which I have witnessed will
continue when I am gone. That belief only can make
my grave peaceful.

" I leave you affluence and honour at least. I leave
you the means of repairing my injury. Hiat is my com-
fort ; but forgive me, Jane. Say, my child, you forgive
me for what has passed."

21 8 JANE TALBOT.

She stretched her hand to- me, which I bathed with
my tears. — But this subject afflicts me too much.

Give my affectionate compliments to Mr. Montford, and
tell me that you wish to see your Jane.

LETTER LXI.

To 3Irs. Talbot.

New York, October 22.

You tell me, my dear Jane, that you are coming to
reside in this city ; but you have not gratified my im-
patience by saying how soon. Tell me when you propose
to come. Is there not something in which I can be of
service to you ? — some preparations to be made ?

Tell me the day when you expect to arrive among us,
that I may wait on you as soon as possible.

I shall embrace my sister with a delight which I cannot
express. I will not part with the delightful hope of one
day calling you truly such.

Accept the fraternal regards of Mr. Montford.

M.M.

LETTER LXIL

To 3Irs. Montford.

Banks of Delaware, September 5.

Be not anxious for me, Mary. I hope to experience
very speedy relief from the wholesome airs that perpetually
fan this spot. Your apprehensions from the influence of
these scenes on my fancy are groundless. They breathe
nothing over my soul but delicious melancholy. I have
done expecting and repining, you know. Four years
have passed since I was here, — since I met your brother
under these shades.

I have already visited every spot which has been con-
secrated by our interviews. I have found the very rail
which, as I well remember, we disposed into a bench, at

JANE TALBOT. 219

the skirt of a wood bordering a stubble-field. The same
pathway through the thicket where I have often walked
with him, I now traverse morning and night.

Be not uneasy, I repeat, on my account. My present
situation is happier than the rest of the world can afibrd.
I tell you I have done repining. I have done sending
forth my views into an earthly futurity. Anxiety, I
hope, is now at an end with me.

What do you think I design to do ? I assure you it is
no new scheme. Ever since my mother's death, I have
thought of it at times. It has been my chief consolation.
I never mentioned it to you, because I knew you would
not approve it. It is this.

To purchase this farm and ta,kfi up my abode upon it
for thf! rfist of m y liii a— I need not become farmer, you
knowl 1 can let the ground to some industrious person,
upon easy terms. I can add all the furniture and appen-
dages to this mansion, which my convenience requires.
Luckily, Sandford has for some time entertained thoughts
of parting with it, and I believe he could not find a more
favourable purchaser.

You will tell me that the fields are sterile, the barn
small, the stable crazy, the woods scanty. These would
be powerful objections to a mere tiller of the earth, but
they are none to me.

'Tis true, it is washed by a tide-water. The bank is
low, and the surrounding country sandy and flat, and you
may think I ought rather to prefer the beautiful variety
of hill and dale, luxuriant groves and fertile pastures,
which abound in other parts of the country. But you
know, my friend, the mere arrangement of inanimate
objects — wood, grass, and rock — is nothing. It owes its
power of bewitching us to the memory, the fancy, and the
heart. No spot of earth can- possibly teem with as many
affecting images as this ; for here it was

But my eyes already overflow. In the midst of these
scenes, remembrance is too vivid to allow me thus to de-
scant on them. At a distance I could talk of them with-
out that painful emotion, and now it would be useless
repetition. Have I not, more than once, related to you
every dialogue, described every interview ?

220 JANE TALBOT.

God bless you, dear Mary, and continue to you all your
present happiness.

Don't forget to write to me. Perhaps some tidings may
reach you — ^wn, thou flattering h ope ! thou throbbing
heart, peace"r~~He is gone. These eyes will never see
him more. Hacfan^angel whispered the fatal news in
my wakeful ear, I should not more firmly believe it.

And yet — But I must not heap up disappointments for
myselE ^Would to Heaven there was no room for the
least doubt, — that, one way or the other, hig
ascertained !

How agreeable is your intelligence tl^t Mr. Cartwright/
'h.zs, embarked, after taking cheerful leSrrVof you! It
grieves me, my friend, that you do not entirely approve
of my conduct toAvardsTfet-nian; TTtteveHbfmaily-at-
templed!-to-4usti|jjnyself. 'Twas a subject on which I
'couldnot give utterance to my thoughts. How irksome
is blame from those we love ! there is instantly suspicion
that blame is merited. A new process of self-defence is
to be gone over, and ten to one but that, after all our
efforts, there are some dregs at the bottom of the cup.

I was half willing to found my excuse on the hope of
the wanderer's return ; but I am too honest to urge a false
plea. Besides, I know that certainty, in that respect,
would make no difference ; and would it not be fostering
in him a hope that my mind might be changed in conse-
quence of being truly informed respecting your brother's
fate-?

y I persuade myself that a man of Cartwright's integrity
and generosity cannot be made lastingly unhappy by me.
I know but of one human being more excellent. _IJio
his sensibility be keen, I trust to his fortitud-gT"

It is true, Mary, what you have heard(___Gai±ffixigl
was my school-fellow. When we grew to an age that
made it proper to frequent separate schools, he did not
forget me. The schools adjoined each other, and he used
to resist all the enticements of prison-base and cricket
for the sake of waiting at the door of our school till it
broke up, and then accompanying me home.

These little gallant offices made him quite singular
among his compeers, and drew on him and on me a good

JANE TALBOT. 221

deal of ridicule. But he did not mind it. I thouglit
him, and everybody else thought him, a most amiable and
engaging youth, though only twelve or thirteen years old.

'Tis impossible to say what might have happened had
he not gone with his mother to Europe ; or rather, it is
likely, I think, that our fates, had he stayed among us,
would in time have been united. But he went away when
I was scarcely fourteen. At parting, I remember, we
shed a great many tears and exchanged a great many
kisses, and promises not to forget. And that promise
never was broken by me. He was always dear to my
remembrance.

Time has only improved all the graces of the boy. I
will not conceal from «/om, Mary, that nothing but a pre-
occupied heart has been an obstacle to his wishes. If
that impediment had not existed, my reverence for his
worth, my gratitude for his tenderness, would have made
me comply. I will even go further ; I will say to i/ou,
though my regard to his happiness will never suffer me
to say it to him, that if three years more pass away, and
I am fully assured that your brother's absence will be
perpetual, and Cartwright's happiness is still in my hands,
— that then — I possibly may — But I am sure that, before
that time, his hand and his heart will be otherwise dis-
posed of. Most sincerely shall I rejoice at the last event.

All are well here. My friend is as good-natured and
affectionate as ever, and sings as delightfully and plays
as adroitly. She humours me with all my favourite airs,
twice a day. We have no strangers ; no impertinents
to intermeddle in our conversations and mar our enjoy-
ments.

You know what turn my studies have taken, and what
books I have brought with me. 'Tis remarkable what
unlooked-for harvests arise from small and insignificant
germs. My afiections have been the stimulants to my
curiosity. What was it induced me to procure maps and
charts and explore the course of the voyager over seas
and round capes? There was a time when these objects
were wholly frivolous and unmeaning in my eyes; but
now they gain my whole attention.

When I found that my happiness was embarked with

222 JANE TALBOT.

your brother in a tedious and perilous voyage, was it pos-
sible to forbear collecting all the information attainable
respecting his route, and the incidents likely to attend
it? I got maps and charts, and books of voyages, and
found a melancholy enjoyment in connecting the incidents
and objects ■which they presented with the destiny of my
friend. The pursuit of this chief and most interesting
object has brought within view and prompted me to exa-
mine a thousand others, on which, without this original
inducement, I should never have bestowed a thought.-

The map of the world exists in my fancy in a most
vivid and accurate manner. Repeated meditation on
displays of shoal, sand-bank, and water, has created a
sort of attachment to geography for its own sake. I
have often reflected on the innumerable links in the
chain of my ideas between my first eager examination
of the route by sea between New York and Tobago, and
yesterday's employment, when I was closely engaged in
measuring the marches of Frederick across the moun-
tains of Bohemia.

How freakish and perverse are the rovings of human
curiosity ! The surprise which Miss Betterton betrayed,
when, in answer to her inquiries as to what study and
what book I prized the most, you told her that I thought
of little else than of the art of moving from shore to
shore across the water, and that I pored over Cook's
Voyages so much that I had gotten the best part of them
by rote, was very natural. She must have been puzzled
to conjecture what charms one of my sex could find in
the study of maps and voyages. Once I should have
been just as much puzzled myself. Adieu. J. T.

LETTER LXIII.

To Mrs. Talbot.

New York, October 1.
Be not angry with me, dear Jane. Yet I am sure,
when you know my offence, you will feel a great deal of
indignation. You cannot be more angry with me than I

JANE TALBOT. 223

am with myself. I do not know how to disclose the very
rash thing I have done. If you knew my compunction,
you would pity me.

Cartwright embarked on the day I mentioned, but
remained for some days wind-bound at the Hook. Yes-
terday he unexpectedly made his appearance in our
apartment, at the very moment when I was perusing
your last letter. I was really delighted to see him, and
the images connected with him, which your letter had
just suggested, threw me off my guard. Finding by
whom the letter was written, he solicited with the utmost
eagerness the sight of it.

Can you forgive me ? My heart overflowed with pity
for the excellent man. I knew the transport one part
of your letter would afford him. I thought that no
injury, but rather happiness, would redound to yourself.

I now see that I was guilty of a most culpable breach
of confidence in showing him your delicate confession;
but I was bewitched, I think.

I can write of nothing else just now. Much as I
dread your displeasure, I could not rest till I had ac-
knowledged my fault and craved your pardon. Forgive,
I beseech you, your M. Montford.

LETTER LXIV.
To Mrs. Talbot.

New York, December 12.
I CANNOT leave this shore without thanking the mistress
of my destiny for all her goodness. Yet I should not
have ventured thus to address you, had I not seen a let-
ter — Dearest creature, blame not your friend for betray-
ing you. Think it not a rash or injurious confession
that you have made.

And is it possible that you have not totally forgotten
the sweet scenes of our childhood, — that absence has
not degraded me in your opinion, — and that my devo-
tion, if it continue as fervent as now, may look, in a few
years, for its reward ?

224 JANE TALBOT.

Could you prevail on yourself to hide these generous
emotions from me? To suffer me to leave my country
in the dreary belief that all former incidents were hold
in contempt, and that, so far from being high in your
esteem, my presence was troublesome, my existence was
irksome, to you?

But your motive was beneficent and generous. You
were content to be thought unfeeling and ungrateful for
the sake of my happiness. I rejoice inexpressibly in
that event which has removed the veil from your true
sentiments. Nothing but pure felicity to me can flow
from it. Nothing but gratitude and honour can redound
from it to yourself.

I go ; but not with anguish and despondency for my
companions. I am buoyed up by the light wings of
hope. The prospect of gaining your love is not the only
source of my present happiness. If it were, I should
be a criminal and selfish being. No. My chief delight
is, that happiness is yet in store for you; that, should
Heaven have denied you your first hope, there still lives
one whose claim to make you happy will not be rej ected.

r^ GmARTWRIQHTi>

LETTER LXV.

To &. Cartivright.

Banks of Delaware, October 5.

My Brothee : —

It would avail me nothing .to deny the confessions to
which you allude. Neither will I conceal from you that
I am much grieved at the discovery. Far am I from
deeming your good opinion of little value; but in this
case I was more anxious to deserve it than possess it.

Little, indeed, did you know me, when you imagined
me insensible to your merit and forgetful of the happy
days of our childhood, — the recollection of which has a
thousand times made my tears flow. I thank Heaven
that the evils which I have suffered have had no tendency
to deaden my affections, to narrow my heart.

JANE TALBOT. 22$

The joy which I felt for your departure was far from
being unmixed. The persuasion that my friend and
brother was going where he was likely to find that tran-
quillity of which his stay here would bereave him, but
imperfectly soothed the pangs of a long and perhaps an
eternal separation.

Farewell ; my feryent and disinterested blessings go
with you. Return speedily to your country, but bring
with you a heart devoted to another, and only glowing
with a brotherly affection for J. T.

LETTER LXVI.
To Jane Talbot.

New York, November 15.

The fear that what I have to communicate may be
imparted more abruptly and with false or exaggerated
circumstances induces me to write to you.

Yesterday week, a ship arrived in this port from Ba-
tavia, in which my husband's brother, Stephen Montford,
came passenger.

You will be terrified at these words ; but calm your
apprehensions. Harry do es not accom pany him, it is
tru g. nor are we a'cauainted with his present situation. J ~

The story of their unfortunate voyage cannot be mi-
nutely related now. Suffice it to say that a wicked and
turbulent wretch, whom they shipped in the West Indies
as mate, the former dying on the voyage_Jiiitier, gave
rise, by his intrigues among the crew, t»5i muti^^T)

After a prosperous navigation and some stay at iNootka,
they prepared to cross the ocean to Asia. TKey pursued
the usual route of former traders, and, after -touching at
the Sandwich Islands, they made the land of Japan.

At this period, the mutiny, which had long been
hatching, broke out. The whole crew, including the
mate, joined the conspiracy. Montford and my brother
were the objects of this conspiracy.

The original design was to murder them both and
throw their bodies into the sea; but this cruel proposal
15

226 JANE TALBOT.

■was thwarted both by compassion and by policy, and it
was resolved to set my brother ashore on the first inhos-
pitable land they should meet, and retain Montford to
assist them in the navigation of the vessel, designing
to destroy him when his services should no longer be
necessary.

This scheme was executed as soon as they came in
sight of an outlying isle or dry sand-bank on the eastern
coast of Japan. Here they seized the two unsuspecting
youths, at daybreak, while asleep in their lerths, and,
immediately putting out their boat, landed my brother
on the shore, without clothing or provisions of any kind.
Montford petitioned to share the fate of his friend, but
they would not listen to it.

Six days afterwards, they lighted on a Spanish ship
bound to ilanilla, which was in want of water. A party
of the Spaniards came on board in search of some supply
of that necessary article.

On their coming, Montford was driven below and dis-
abled from giving, by his cries, any alarm. The sentinel
who guarded him had received orders to keep him in that
situation till the visitants had departed. From some
impulse of humanity, or mistake of orders, the sentinel
freed him from restraint a few minutes earlier than had
been intended, and he got on deck before the departing
strangers had gone to any considerable distance from the
ship. He immediately leaped into the sea and made for
the boat, to which, being a very vigorous swimmer, he
arrived in safety.

The mutineers, finding their victim had escaped, endea-
voured to make the best of their way, but were soon over-
taken by the Spanish vessel, to whose oflScers Montford
made haste to explain the true state of aifairs. They
were carried to Manilla, where Montford sold his vessel|
and cargo on very advantageous terms. From thence,
after many delays, he got to Batavia, and from thence
returned home.
^ I have thus given you, my friend, an imperfect account
- of their misfortunes. I need not add that no tidings has
been received, or can reasonably be hoped ever to be re-
ceived, of my brother.

JANE TALBOT. 22/

I could not write on such a subject sooner. For some
days I had thoughts of being -wholly silent on this news.
Indeed, my emotions would not immediately permit me
to use the pen ; but I have concluded, and it is my hus-
band's earnest advice, to tell you the whole truth.

Be not too much distressed, my sister, my friend. Fain
would I give you that consolation which I myself want.
I entreat you, let me hear from you soon, and tell me
that you are not very much afflicted. Yet I could not
believe you if you did. Write to me speedily, however.

LETTER LXVII.
To Mrs. Talbot.

New York, NoTember 23.

You do not write to me, my dear Jane. Why are you
silent ? Surely you cannot be indifferent to my happi-
ness. You must know how painful, at a moment like
this, your silence must prove.

I have waited from day to day in expectation of a
letter ; but more than a week has passed, and none has
come. Let me hear from you immediately, I entreat
you.

I am afraid you are ill ; or perhaps you are displeased
with me. Unconsciously I may have given you offence.

But, indeed, I can easily suspect the cause of your
silence. I trembled with terror when I sent you tidings
of our calamity. I know the impetuosity of your feel-
ings, and the effects of your present solitude. Would
to Heaven you were anywhere but where you are!
Would to Heaven you were once more with us !

Let me beseech you to return to us immediately. Mr.
M. is anxious to go for you. He wanted to set out im-
mediately on his brother's arrival, and to be the bearer
of my letter, but I prevailed on him to forbear until I
heard from you.

Do not, if you have any regard for me, delay answer-
ing me a moment longer. M. M.

228 JANE TALBOT.

LETTER LXVIII.

To Mrs. Montford.

Banks of Delaware, November 26.

I BESEECH you, dear Mrs. Montford, take some mea-
sures for drawing our dear Jane from this place. There
is no remedy but absence from this spot, cheerful com-
pany and amusing engagements, for the sullen grief which
has seized her. Ever since the arrival of your letter,
giving us the fatal tidings of your brother's misfortune,
she has been — in a strange way — I am almost afraid to
tell you. I know how much you love her ; but, indeed,
indeed, unless somebody with more spirit and skill than
I possess will undertake to console a,nd divert her, I am
fearful we shall lose her forever.

I can do nothing for her relief. You know what a poor
creature I am. Instead of summoning up courage to
assist another in distress, the sight of it confuses and
frightens me. Never, I believe, was there such another
helpless, good-for-nothing creature in existence. Poor
Jane's affecting ways only make me miserable; and,
instead of my being of any use to her, her presence de-
prives me of all power to attend to my family and friends.
I endeavour to avoid her, though, indeed, that requires
but little pains to effect, since she will not be seen but
when she cannot choose ; for whenever she looks at me
steadily there is such expression in her features, some-
thing so woeful, so wild, that I am struck with terror. It
never fails to make me cry heartily.

Come hither yourself, or send somebody immediately.
If you do not, I dread the consequence.

JANE TALBOT. 229

LETTER LXIX.

To Mr. Montford.

New HaTen, February 10.

My dear Friend : —

This letter is written in extreme pain ; yet no pain that
I ever felt, no external pain possible for me to feel, is
equal to the torment I derive from suspense. Good
Heaven! what an untoward accident! to be forcibly
immured in a tavern-chamber ; when the distance is so
small between me and that certainty after which my soul
pants !

I ought not thus to alarm my beloved friends, but I
know not what I writ« : my head is in confusion, my heart
in tumults ; a delirium, more the effect of a mind stretched
upon the rack of impatience than of limbs shattered and
broken, whirls me out of myself.

Not a moment of undisturbed repose have I enjoyed
for the last two months. If awake, omens and conjec-
tures, menacing fears, and half-formed hopes, have haunted
and harassed me. If asleep, dreams of agonizing forms
and ever- varying hues have thronged my fancy and driven
jiway peace.

^'^n less than an hour after landing at Boston, I placed
myself in the swiftest stage, and have travelled night
and day, till within a mile of this town, whe n the carriage
was overturned a.nd my left arm terribly_s hattered. I
was drawn with difficulty hitlier; and my only hope of
being once more well is founded on my continuance, for
I know not how long, in one spot and one posture.

By this time, the well-known hand has told you who
it is that writes this : — the exile ; the fugitive ; whg m four
lo ng years of ab spn^^^ and siIptipp bira not.^ I hope, erased
from your remembrance, banished from your love, or even
totally excluded from the hope of being seen again.

Yet that hope, surely, must have been long ago dis-
missed. Acquainted as you are with some part of my
destiny ; of my being left o n the desert shore of Japan ;
on the borders of a new world^— a world civilized indeed.

230 JANE TALBOT.

and peopled by men, but existing in almost total sepa-
ration from the other families of mankind ; with language,
manners, and policy almost incompatible with the exist-
ence of a stranger among them; all entrance or egress
from which being commonly supposed to be prohibited
by iron laws and inflexible despotism ; that I, a stranger,
naked, forlorn, cast upon a sandy beach frequented but
at rare intervals and by savage fishermen, should find
my way into the heart of this wonderful empire, and •
finally explore my way back to my native shore, are
surely most strange and incredible achievements. Yet
all this, my friend, has been endured and performed by
your Golden.

Finding it impossible to move immediately from this
place, and this day's post having gone out before my
arrival, I employed a man to carry you these assurances
of my existence and return, and to bring me back intel-
ligence of your welfare ; and some news concerning —
may I perish if I can, at this moment, write her name !
Every moment, every mile that has brought me nearer
to her, or rather nearer to certainty of her life or death,
her happiness or misery, has increased my trepidation, —
added new tremors to my heart.

I have some time to spare. In spite of my impa-
tience, my messenger cannot start within a few hours. I
am little fitted, in my present state of pain and suspense,
to write intelligibly. Yet what else can I do but write ?
and will you not, in your turn, be impatient to know by
what means I have once more set my foot in my native
land ?

I will fill up the interval, till my messenger is ready,
by writing. I will give you some hints of my adven-
tures. All particulars must be deferred till I see you.
Heaven grant that I may once more see you and my
sister ! Four months ago you were well, but that interval
is large enough to breathe ten thousand disasters. Ex-
pect not a distinct or regular story. That, I repeat,
must be deferred till we meet. Many a long day would
be consumed in the telling ; and that which was hazard
or hardship in the encounter and the sufferance will be
pleasant to remembrance and delightful in narration.

JANE TALBOT. 23 1

You know by what accident, and in what remote and
inhospitable region, Stephen and I were separated. How
did I know, you will perhaps ask, the extent of your
knowledge? By strange and unexpected means; but
have patience, and in due time I will tell you.

What a scene did I pass through ! what uncouth forms.
Strange accents, and ferocious demeanour presented them-
' selves in the fishermen that found me, half famished, on
a sand-bank ! My fate, whether death or servitude, de-
pended on the momentary impulse of untutored hearts, —
perhaps on some adroitness and dexterity in myself.

They carried me from the solitary shore, into the
heart of a cultivated island. Rumour became instantly
busy, and at length reached the ears of a sort of feudal
or, t.erritnria.1 lnri|^ By his orders, I was brought into
his rustic palace. I found humanity and curiosity in
this man. I passed several months in his house, ac-
quiring gradually a smattering of the language, and
some insight into the policy and manners of the people.

I endeavoured to better my condition and gain respect
to my person by the display of all the accomplishments
of which I was master. These, alas, were but few ; yet
some of them were not altogether useless ; and the hu-
mane temper of one whom I may call my patron secured
me gentle and even respectful treatment.

After some months this lord, whose name was Teke-
hatsin, left his island, and set out on a journey to the
metropolis. He left me with promises of the continuance
of his favour and protection, and urged his regard for
my safety as a reason for not taking me along with him.
I heard nothing of him for six weeks after his departure.
Then a messenger arrived, with orders to bring me up to
his master.

The incidents of this journey, the aspects of the coun-
try, of the cities, of the villages through which I passed,
will afford an inexhaustible theme for future conversa-
tions. I reached at length the residence of Tekehatsin
in the chief city of the kingdom, the name of which is
Jedho. Shortly after I was introduced to one in whom
I recognised a native of Europe, and therefore, in some
respects, a countryman.

232 JANE TALBOT.

This person's name was Holtz. He was the a^ent of
the Dutc h East India C km^aayS JapanT He was then"
at court m a sort of diplomatic character. He was
likewise a physician and man of science. He had even
been in America, and found no difficulty in conversing
with me in my native language.

You will easily imagine the surprise and pleasure
which such a meeting afforded me. It likewise opened
a door to my return to Europe, as a large trade is regu-
larly maintained between Java and Japan.

Many obstacles, however, in the views which Teke-
hatsin had formed, of profit and amusement, from my re-
maining in his service, and in the personal interests and
wishes of my friend Holtz, opposed this design ; nor was
I able to accomplish it, but on condition of returning.

I confess to you, my friend, my heart was not ex-
tremely averse to this condition.

I left America with very faint hopes, and no expecta-
tion, of ever returning. The longer I resided among
this race of men, the melancholy and forlornness of my
feelings declined. Prospects of satisfaction from the
novelty and grandeur of the scene into which I had en-
tered began to open upon me; sentiments of afiTection
and gratitude for Holtz, and even for the Japanese lord,
took root in my heart. Still, however, happiness was
bound to scenes and to persons very distant from my new
country, and a restlessness forever haunted me, which
nothing could appease but some direet intelligence from
you and from Jane Talbot. By returning to Europe, I
could likewise be of essential service to Holtz, whose
family were Saxons, and whose commercial interests re-
quired the presence of a trusty agent for a few months
at Hamburg.

Let me carry you, in few words, through the difficul-
ties of my embarkation, and the incidents of a short stay
at Batavia, and a long voyage over half the world to
Hamburg.

Shorijy^fter my return to Hamburg, from an excur-

sipainto SaScony to see Holtz's friends, I met with Mr.

j^aj^twpght;^ an American. After much fluctuation, I

liad previously resolved to content myself with writing

JANE TALBOT. 233

to you, of whom I received such verbal information from
several of our countrymen as removed my anxiety on
your account. A very plausible tale, told me by some
one that pretended to know, of Mrs. Talbot's marriage
with a Mr. Cartwright, extinguished every new-born
wish to revisit my native land, and I expected to set sail
on my return to India, before it could be possible to hear
from you.

I was on the eve of my departure, when the name of
Cartwright, an American, then at Hamburg, reached my
ears. The similarity of his name to that of the happy
man who had supplanted the poor wanderer in the affec-
tions of Jane, and a suspicion that they might possibly
be akin, and, consequently, that this might afford me
some information as to the character or merits of that
Cartwright, made me throw myself in his way.

You may easily imagine, what I shall defer relating,
the steps which led us to a knowledge of each other, and
by which I discovered that this Cartwright was the one
mentioned to me, and that, instead of being already the
husband of my Jane, his hopes of her favour depended
on the certain proof of my death.

Cartwright's behaviour was in the highest degree dis-
interes ted. He might easily have left me in my original
error, and a very few days would have sent me on a voy-
age which would have been equivalent to my death. On
the contrary, his voluntary information, and a letter
which he showed me, written in Jane's hand, created a
new soul in my breast. Every foreign object vanished,
and every ancient sentiment, connected with our unfortu-
nate loves, was instantly revived. Ineffable tenderness,
and an impatience next to rage to see her, reigned in
my heart.

Yet, my friend, with all my confidence of a favourable
reception from Jane, — her conduct now exempt from the
irresistible control of her mother, and her tenderness for
me as fervent as ever, — yet, since so excellent a man as
Cartwright existed, since his claims were, in truth, ante-
cedent to mine, since my death or everlasting absence
would finally insure success to these claims, since his
character was blemished by none of those momentous

234 JANE TALBOT.

errors with which mine was loaded, since that harmony
of opinion on religious subjects, without which marriage
can never be a source of happiness to hearts touched by
a true and immortal passion, was perfect in Ms case, —
never should mere passion have seduced me to her feet.
If my reflections and experience had not changed my
character, — if all Jier views as to the final destiny and
present obligations of human beings had not become
mine., — I should have deliberately ratified the act of my
eternal banishment.

Yes, my friend; this weather-beaten form and sunburnt
face are not more unlike what you once knew, than my
habits and opinions now and formerly. The incidents of
a long voyage, the vicissitudes through which I have
passed, have given strength to my frame, while the oppor-
tunities and occasions for wisdom which these have af-
forded me have made my mind whole. I have awakened
from my dreams of doubt and misery, not to the cold and
vague belief, but to the living and delightful consciousness,
of every tie that can bind man to his Divine Parent and
Judge.

Again I must refer you to our future interviews. A
broken and obscure tale it would be which I could now
relate. I am hurried, by my fears and suspenses — Yet
it would give you pleasure to know every thing as soon
as possible — some time likewise must elapse — You and
my sister have always been wise. The lessons of true
piety it is the business of your lives to exemplify and to
teach. Henceforth, if that principle, which has been my
stay and my comfort in all the slippery paths and un-
looked-for perils from which I have just been delivered,
desert not my future steps, I hope to be no mean example
and no feeble teacher of the same lessons. Indefatigable
zeal and strenuous efforts are indeed incumbent on me in
proportion to the extent of my past misconduct and the
depth of my former degeneracy.

By what process of reflection I became thus, you shall
speedily know: yet can you be at a loss to imagine it?
You, who have passed through somewhat similar changes ;
who always made allowances for the temerity of youth,
the fascinations of novelty ; who always predicted that a

JANE TALBOT. 2$$

few more years, the events of my peculiar destiny, the
leisure of my long voyage, and that goodness of intention
to which you were ever kind enough to admit my claims,
would ultimately provide the remedy for all errors and
evils, and make me worthy of the undivided love of all
good men, — ^you, who have had this experience, and who
have always regarded me in this light, will not wonder
that reflection has, at length, raised me to the tranquil
and steadfast height of simple and true piety.

Such, my friend, were my inducements to return ; but
first it was necessary to explain, by letter, to Holtz — But
my messenger is at the dopr, eager to begone. Take
this, my friend. Bring yourself, or send back by the
same messenger, without a moment's delay, tidings of
her, and of your safety. As to me, be not much con-
cerned on my account. I am solemnly assured by my
surgeon that nothing but time and a tranquil mind are
necessary to restore me to health. The last boon no hand
but yours can confer on your H. Golden.

LETTER L^X.
To Henry Oolden.

New York, February 12.

And are you then^vg ? Are you then returned ? Still
do you remember, still love, the ungrateful and capricious
Jane ? Have you indeed come back to soothe her almost
broken heart, — to rescue her from the grave, — to cheer
her with the prospect of peaceful and bright days yet to
come?

Oh, my full heart ! Sorrow has not hitherto been able
quite to burst this frail tenement. I almost fear that
joy, — so strange to me is joy, and so far, so very far,
beyond my notions of possibility was your return, — I
almost fear that joy will do what sorrow was unable to do.

Can it be that Golden — that selfsame, dear, pensive
face, those eyes, benignly and sweetly mild, and that
heart-dissolving voice, have escaped so many storms, so
many dangers ? Was it love for me that led you from

236 JANE TALBOT.

the extremity of the world ? and have you, indeed, brought
back with you a heart full of "ineffable tenderness" for
me ?

Unspeakably unworthy am I of your love. Time and
grief, dear Hal, have bereft me of the glossy hues, the
laughing graces, which your doting judgment once as-
cribed to me. But what will not the joy of your return
effect ? I already feel lightsome and buoyant as a bird.
My head is giddy ; but, alas, you are not well, — yet, you
assure us, not dangerously sick. Nothing, did you not say,
but time and repose necessary to heal you ? Will not my
presence, my nursing, hasten thy restoration ? Tuesday
evening — they say it can't possibly be sooner — I am with
you. No supporters shall you have but my arms; no
pillow but my breast. Every holy rite shall instantly be
called in to make us one. And when once united, nothing
but death shall ever part us again. What did I say f
Death itself — at least thy death — shall never dissever
that bond.

Your brother will take this. Your sister — she is the
most excellent of women, and worthy to be your sister —
she and I will follow him to-morrow. He will tell you
much which my hurried spirits will not allow me to tell
you in this letter. He knows everything. He has been
a brother since my mother's death. She is dead, Henry.
She died in my arms ; and will it not give you pleasure to
know that her dying lips blessed me, and expressed the
hope that you would one day return to find, in my au-
thorized love, some recompense for all the evils to which
her antipathies subjected you? She hoped, indeed, that
observation and experience would detect the fallacy of
your former tenets ; that you would become wise, not in
speculation only, but in practice, and be, in every respect,
deserving of the happiness and honour which would attend
the gift of her daughter's hand and heart.

My words cannot utter, but thy own heart perhaps can
conceive, the rapture which thy confession of a change in
thy opinions has afforded me. All my prayers, Henry,
have not been merely for your return. Indeed, whatever
might have been the dictates, however absolute the domi-
nion, of passion, union with you would have been very

JANE TALBOT. 237

far from completing my felicity, unless our hopes and
opinions, as well as our persons and hearts, were united.
Now can I look up with confidence and exultation to
the shade of my revered and beloved mother. Now can I
safely invoke her presence and her blessing on a union
which death will have no power to dissolve. Oh, what
sweet peace, what serene transport, is there in the persua-
sion that the selected soul will continue forever to com-
mune with my soul, mingle with mine in its adoration of
the same Divine Parent, and partake with me in every
thought, in every emotion, both here and hereafter!

Never, my friend, without tMs persuasion, never should
I have known one moment of true happiness. Mar-
riage, indeed, instead of losing its attractions in conse-
quence of your errors, drew thence only new recom-
mendations, since with a zeal, a tenderness, and a faith
like mine, my efforts to restore such a heart and such a
reason as yours could not fail of success ; but till that
restoration were accomplished, never, I repeat, should I
have tasted repose even in your arms.

Poor Miss J essup ! She is dead, Henry, — yet not be-
fore she did thee and me poor justice. Her death-bed
con fession removed my mother's fatal suspicions. This
confession and the perusal of all thy letters, and thy
exile, which I afterwards discovered was known to her
very early, though unsuspected by me till after her de-
cease, brought her to regard thee with some compassion
and some respect.

I can write no more ; but must not conclude till I have
offered thee 'the tenderest, most fervent vows of a heart
that ever was and always will be thine own. Witness,

Jane Talbot,

THE END.